Belle
by AvyJC15
Summary: A talented young singer is thrown back in time, following the death of her father. Reuniting with her beloved parent in the 19th, Gracelyn Monteverdi finds herself soaring up unto a different socially classified ladder, demoted from lead singer in her school choir to costume girl in the infamous Opera Populaire, to Opera singer, trained under the watchful eye of her Angel of Music.
1. Cast

**Cast**

**Odette Annable as **Gracelyn Monteverdi

**Antonio Banderas as **Francis Monteverdi

**Henry Cavill as **Jean Hugo

**Lexi Walker as **Christine Daaé

**Hadley Fraser as **Gustave Daaé

**Sierra Boggess as **Victoire Daaé

**Adam Storke as **Philippe De Chagny

**Teri Polo as **Annaliese De Chagny

**Alicia Silverstone as** Collette De Chagny

**Ty Simpkins as **Raoul De Chagny

**Cary Elwes as** Comte Philbert De Chagny

**Robin Wright as** Comtess Marianne De Chagny

**Gérard Butler as **Erik Destler

**Jeremy Jordan as **Louis Babineaux

**Luke Evans as **Armand Corin

**John Cena as **Gaston LeGume

**Robert Englund as **Giuseppe Tartini

**Emma Watson as **Annabella De Ravin

**Kevin Kline as **Maurice De Ravin

**Alex Pettyfer as **Julio Monteverdi

**Miranda Richardson as **Antoinette Giry

**Alyvia Alyn Lind as **Meg Giry

**John Addison as **Monsieur Acquard

**James Fleet as **Benoît Lefèvre

**Burt Lancaster as **Gérard Carrière

**Ian Richardson as **Alain Choleti

**Andréa Ferréol as **Amélie Choleti

**Jean Rougerie as **Jean-Claude Monet

**Nina Dobrev as** Carmen _Ayden _Grey

**Uncredited Actress as **Sheala _Hayden _Grey


	2. Preamble

**Preamble**

**U-091991 — Toronto, ON****, ****CA**  
**Monday,** **April 18, ****2002**

The young fourteen-year-old girl felt her insides clench as she looked up at the worried-looking medic who had previously been tending to her beloved parent.

"What is it, doctor?" Her voice was so soft it was barely audible as it shook with fright and anticipation. "Is he going to be alright?"

"Your father's heart rate just dropped very low in a rather short amount of time. I'm… I'm afraid I'm not sure what's going on anymore; he was fine an hour ago, but in the last couple minutes…" He cut himself off, rubbing his head in a mix of exhaustion and slight irritation at his lack of information. "You should go see him _now_."

The girl hesitated for a moment before rushing past the man, barging into the room _1872_.

Francis Monteverdi lay awake in his hospital cot, his usually toned olive skin almost as pale as snow. It made his daughter unsubtly panic as the last person she had seen so pale per unusuality was her mother, Christine, before she died, leaving her motherless at the age of four.

"My little Angel of Music," he said softly, a smile curling his chapped lips upward upon seeing his little girl.

"How are you feeling?" she asked in a whisper as she approached him in three long strides.

The monitor stopped beeping for a moment, then started again. "… I've been better," he admitted.

"I'll get Doctor—" the girl began to say but was stopped short when her father caught her wrist, earning a subtle wince from her part as he prevented her from leaving.

"Angel, it's no use."

"What do you mean it's no use?" she demanded. "The doctor ca—"

"Can't do anything anymore."

The girl stood frozen where she stood when she heard that. She knew that tone in his voice. She looked down at him; he was still smiling, but it was such a sad, sad smile full of so much pain and regret.

"You knew." It wasn't a question.

"Gra—"

"How long have you known?" she demanded. Mister Monteverdi hesitated. "_Papá_, how long have you known?"

Mister Monteverdi sighed, letting go of his daughter's wrist. "_Mi __ángel_," he began. "Us, Monteverdi… we are known to have… weak hearts. And, unfortunately, I don't mean that figuratively."

She looked at him, eyes wide with horror and disbelief. "You… you've known forever that you were going to die sooner than the average?" she asked disbelievingly. "_Ay, Dios mío_— am I going to die?!"

"Gra—"

"No, you know what? I don't care. _You_ can't die. You just can't, _Papá_, you can't leave—"

"I'm not going anywhere."

She looked back down at him with teary eyes. "But you said—"

"We have a weak heart, I know. But I've still got a lot of fight left in me," he said, a bit teasingly, but nothing could even crack a smile from her.

"_Papi_… I don't want you to leave…" she mumbled, taking a seat on the chair beside his cot.

"I won't. Not as long as I can help it." He gave her another smile, wiping away a stray tear from her cheek. "Now, my lovely Angel of Music—"

"You do know I'm not an actual Angel of Music, right?"

"You're my Angel of Music, _mi mariposita_," he told her. She shook her head, but he merely smiled back. "Now, may I hear you sing?"

"_Papá_…"

"_Vamos, mi querida_," he told her. "Think of it as a warm-up session for your show tonight."

Her eyes dropped to the ground. "I don't think I should…"

Mister Monteverdi furrowed his brows at her words, reaching out to take her warm hand in his cold one. "You _will_ sing tonight, _mi princesa_. You will sing at that theater as it has been your dream. You will sing, and you will blow their minds away. And you will bring our family name back amongst the stars. You will be greater than our ancestor, Francesco Monteverdi. _Mi __ángel_, the world will be screaming your name. "_Gracelyn! Gracelyn!_"" He looked her in the eyes and said, "You will be the greatest Monteverdi the world has ever known. A true Angel of Music."

"_Ay, Papi_, you flatter me," the girl replied softly, a small smile on her lips.

He chuckled, bringing her hand to his lips and pressing a soft his upon it. "_Ahora canta por mí, mi __ángel__; me gustaría escuchar tu dulce voz angélica una última vez._"

She brought her other hand up and ran it through her father's dark curls, the curls she would play with as a toddler when he would place her on his shoulders. "Alright."

She looked at him, the sadness on her face visibly morphing into agony as she stared intently at him before she began to sing, her soft voice echoing throughout the room and out into the seemingly empty hallway as she sang the song her parents and herself had adopted as their song.

"_Think of me, think of me fondly__…__ when we've said goodbye. Remember me, every so often; promise me you'll try._" She took her turn to bring his hand to her lips and press a soft kiss upon it. "_When you find that once again you long to take your heart back and be free__…_"

"**_If you ever find a moment_**," her father joined in softly, his voice rasping against his throat as he forced himself slightly to sing in harmony with her. "**_Spare a thought for me._**"

She hadn't realized she was crying until her father wiped another tear from her cheek.

"Don't cry, _mi_ _ángel_," he told her gently. "You were great. You _are_ great. Your mother would've been so proud of you."

The girl sighed, leaning forward and resting her head beside her father's on the large pillow beneath him. "_Papá_, is there truly such thing as the Angel of Music?"

He placed a soft kiss on her head and smiled, closing his eyes as he relished the warmth emitting from her body. "Perhaps, perhaps not. I can't really show you any proof of that. We each have our own angels and demons."

"… that's not really answering my question," she muttered.

"Gracelyn, if you believe in the impossible, it will become the exact opposite." When she didn't respond this time, it was clear she was not as convinced as she used to be when she was younger. "How about this: when I'm in heaven—"

"_Papá_…"

"I will send him to you."

The fourteen-year-old glanced up at her father, a small confused frown on her face. "Send who?"

"The Angel of Music. I will send him to you, and he will teach you more, and care for and love you in my place."

The girl sat up and shook her head. "You will not leave me, _Papá_… you—"

"My sweet, sweet Grace, I cannot keep throwing a broken kite in the sky: I don't think that I'll make it to see anyone else after tonight."

Her eyes shone with more tears ready to be shed. "_Papi_…"

"**Days in the sun**," he began to sing softly, reaching a hand up to weakly caress her cheek. "**When your life has barely begun. But until my own life is done****…**** could I ever leave you****…**"

Her tears left her eyes as she held his hand to her cheek, kissing the palm of his hand as she shook her head. Before either of them could say anything else, there was a knock at the door.

"Grace." At the sound of her name, the girl spared a glance at the door, her cheeks flushing slightly at the sight of her boyfriend, Jean Hugo. "It's time to go," the boy said quietly.

She looked back at her father, a dejected look on her face as she visibly hesitated, not wanting to leave her his side.

"Go, I'll be fine."

"_Papá_…"

"Son." Jean looked over at the man who had been like a second father to him for as long as he could remember. "Tell your parents that they meant so much to me— they were good friends. Tell them that they were there for us when no one else could be, and that I'll forever be grateful to them for that."

"I will."

"And Grace," Mister Monteverdi said, gripping his daughter's hand anew. "My sweet Grace, don't ever give up on your dreams. Share your talent and travel the world, sing for it. Remind it there still is and always will be a horizon to look forward to."

"I… I promise."

Mister Monteverdi then lay back and closed his eyes, wincing as the monitor went silent for a moment. "I must rest now. Doc says I should stop straining myself," he mumbled to himself.

Looking back at Jean for a moment, Grace hesitated for another moment before she nodded at him before turning back to her father, leaning in to place a tender kiss on his cold forehead.

"I'll be back in a few hours; don't you dare die before I reach my own deathbed," she snapped half-heartedly, earning a light chuckle out of her father. Placing another soft kiss on his forehead, she rose from her seat and walked to the door, sparing one last glance toward her father before leaving the room.

The fourteen-year-old girl remained silent as she and Jean ventured the halls, heading for the elevator on the other side of the building that would lead them to the main floor. Jean worried about the girl, for she was one to not share the burden of negative and painful feelings she would have clamped on her shoulders. She suffered in silence, and as much as he would reassure her she didn't have to, she never changed, not wanting to drop such heavy burden upon others. Not wanting them to succumb to the same darkness she was falling into, every day a bit more, from the sadness and loss she was sure to have to go through once more.

"Tell me, Grace, what's wrong? What are you feeling?"

"My father is dying, Jean, what do you think I'm feeling?" she said softly, bringing a hand to her chest as that familiar pain she'd had to endure her whole life resurface and burned as though touched by a fire-poker. "It hurts. I… I don't think I'll be able to…"

Jean stepped closer, standing in front of her as they waited for the elevator to reach their floor they were currently on. "To what?" he asked, his voice as soft and gentle as his touch, his hand reaching up to caress her cheek. "Speak to me, Grace."

She could've told him. Everything she felt, what her father had told her; how it was possible she might die of a simple heartbreak even. But she didn't. She couldn't find it in herself to pour the words through her mouth. She was usually a very blunt and honest person, but this time it was as if no words could leave her.

"I don't want to talk about it," she mumbled, stepping over into the elevator once its door slid opened. "I'm afraid I might cry if I do."

Looking at her sadly, Jean nodded as the door slid closed behind him. "Fine," he murmured. "Just… please, Grace, don't go keeping everything to yourself. Talk to me; I want to be here for you. I want…" He took her hand in his and placed it against his chest as he began to sing to her, his tenor voice coming out almost as soft as a purr as he sang comforting words to his childhood friend, the girl he loved.

"**No more talk of darkness… forget this pain and fear. I'm here, nothing can harm you— I'm here to stay beside you. Let me be your shelter, let me be your light. You're safe— no one will find you, your fears are far behind you.**"

For a moment there, she forgot everything else and she was brought back to her life-long dream; to be as loved as her mother had been by her father.

"_Say you love me every waking moment, hold me tight until my eyes are dry._" Her mezzo-soprano voice rang angelically as she sang back to him, a teary-eyed smiled replacing the previously sorrowful look on her face. "_Say that you'll be with me, now and always. Promise me that all you say is true—_ _that's all I ask of you__…_"

"**Then say you'll share with me one love, one lifetime. Let me lead you from your solitude. Say you need me with you here, beside you****…**"

Her hands slid their way up to his shoulders and held onto him tightly. "_Say the word and I will follow you__…_"

The fifteen-year-old boy wound his arms around her waist and pulled her to him; he might've been but a boy, but he knew she was the one he wanted to spend the rest of his life with. A smile curled onto his lips as they began to sing in harmony.

"**_Share each day with me, each night, each morning_****_…_**"

"Say you love me," she said softly.

He smiled, pressing his forehead against hers. "**You know I do**," he replied. Then he leant forward and placed a chaste yet sweet, almost shy, kiss on her cheek. "**_Love me— that's all I ask of you._**"

The elevator dinged, indicating they had reached the main floor.

"_We must go, they'll wonder where we are_," she sang softly, gently pulling him toward the exit.

He pulled her to a halt at the door and said, "Gracelyn, I love you."

She looked at him and gave him a tender smile. "And I, you."

**P・O・T・O・P・O・T・O **

As seven o'clock stroke by at the Four Seasons Centre for the Performing Arts, the Orchestra from the Elite Music Academy took their places on the stage. The entire auditorium was dimly lit, only a bit of light glowing from the passageways in case anyone had to come in or leave for the loo.

The curtains finally slid open, the young musicians of the academic orchestra being the first to be brought to light before the spectators' eyes. The spotlight shining on the stage grew bigger as it began to engulf the choir, the sight of them intriguing the watchers as they noticed all boys wore their traditional black pantsuit and white dress shirt, and the girls wore pastel-pink silk gowns. The only thing both, girls and boys, had that matched for all was the wool, hooded capes they all wore; they were nice capes, all trimmed in a wide black braid with passementerie closures and a large tassel.

The lighting on the stage dimmed anew as the string players in the orchestra began to play the opening of their first song, the music fading in softly, very pleasing to all hearing it. Soon the choir joined in, beginning their part in the song. This choir of young teenagers and pre-teens had to be one of the most professional anyone in that theater had ever heard; the voices were all in sync, following perfectly along with the tempo of the instrumental, no voices clashing, only overlapping one another at certain moments as they were taught to do for the song.

After the first verse and chorus were sung, the vocals diminished to only the altos, sopranos and baritones singing a flowing melody, no words being said as the music transitioned into a softer rhythm. The spotlight on the choir and musicians dimmed as one girl from the choir pulled her hood down. The boy on her right and the girl on her left then proceeded by unlatching her cape and slipping it off her shoulders before she stepped forward into the spotlight.

There, in all her angelic glory, stood the last direct descendant of the great Italian composer from the seventeenth century, Francesco Monteverdi— Gracelyn Esmeralda Monteverdi, her silk-satin gown fitting her beautifully, its white color the perfect depiction of her innocence and purity, her angelic mezzo-soprano voice only accentuating her resemblance to an Angel of Music; matching ivory, lace cuffs were cutely latched to her delicate wrists— a rather stark yet beautiful contrast against her olive skin.

"_Caresse sur l'océan, pose_ _l'oiseau si léger__…_"

Gracelyn, like her many ancestors before her from the seventeenth and eighteenth century, was an extravagantly talented human being. It wasn't her talent, however, that had first caught the attention of the world.

"_Sur la pierre d'une île immergée__…_"

During the process of her birth, no one had believed she would come out a ridiculously beautiful baby, even less healthy, mostly due to how physically ill her parents were. Her mother had been a previously conjoined twin, who had been separated at birth from her sister as the latter had not survived being brought out of the womb. The separation, in result, left her rather deformed from the left side of her face, as well as the left side of her upper body, just behind her left arm. Gracelyn's father, and the long line of Monteverdi before them from a century back, all the way to the end of the eighteenth century, suffered from a weak heart, most of her ancestors dying at an early age, some even before reaching adulthood.

"_Air éphémère de l'hiver, enfin ton souffle s'éloigne__…_"

When Gracelyn had been given birth, her father, who had just given up on trying to bring his family name back into the eyes of the art, found new courage to pursue his lifelong goal, wanting his daughter to be proud to have him as a father when she grew older. His love for music was something else she inherited from him, other than the Monteverdi weak heart, and began to have lessons the moment she learned how to speak. Her weak heart did not bother her so much as a toddler, but after her mother passed away, it ached with an indescribable pain every day.

Her delicate, angelic beauty, nor her innocence and purity were comparable to her inner strength. When her father had become too ill to do almost anything, she strengthened her heart as best as she could.

"_Loin dans les montagnes__…_"

But even her built-up strength could only last for so long; she realized that night as she sang in that auditorium filled with hundreds of people, the ache she had felt in her heart earlier that evening coming back stronger.

"**_Vire au vent tournoie déploie tes ailes dans l'aube grise du levant._** **_Trouve un chemin vers l'arc-en-ciel se découvrira le printemps_****_…_**"

And, as she realized what it was that kept killing the Monteverdi over the course of the past four centuries, she began to wonder whether she also suffered from Broken Heart Syndrome. After all, the pain had started after her mother died, and her heart was broken then for the first time. But then again, she had been born with a weak heart.

"_Calme sur l'océan__…_"

They say you remember a past life in your sleep, when you're a baby and a toddler, that's why most children like to play pirate or princess; they were possibly so in a past life. Perhaps she had remembered a past life, and it was so sad and heartbreaking that her heart became sickly weak when she was born.

She breathed in softly through her nose as she stepped backward to join the rest of the choir, all of them unclasping their own capes, dropping them to the ground around their feet. She closed her eyes as she tried to calm and balance the broken beat of her heart, as her teacher, Monsieur Leduc, turned to the choir and began to wave his conducting wand around, directing the choir into the next song.

"**_Ô nuit, viens apporter à la terre le calme enchantement de ton mystère. L'ombre qui l'escorte est si douce; si doux est le concert de tes doigts chantant l'espérance. Si grand est ton pouvoir transformant tout en rêve heureux_**."

Their teacher then motioned toward their pianist, who nodded in return before she began to play a slightly happier rhythm.

"**_Cerf-volant volant au vent, ne t'arrête pas vers la mer, haut dans les airs; un enfant te voit. Voyage insolent, troubles enivrants, amours innocentes—_** **_suivent ta voie_****_…_****_ suivent ta voie_** **_en volant_****_…_**"

Monsieur Leduc smiled at Gracelyn as she once more stepped forward and began her phrase-long solo. "_Cerf-volant volant au vent, ne t'arrête pas._"

"**_Cerf-volant volant au vent, ne t'arrête pas vers la mer, haut dans les airs; un enfant te voit. _****_Et dans la tourmente tes ailes triomphantes_****_…_**"

The pianist began to slow her rhythm into a slower ballad as the song reached its last phrase.

"**_N'oublie pas de revenir vers moi._**"

And then she picked up once more, crescendoing into a merrier march, the rest of the orchestra, both strings and pipes, joining in as well as the percussion, playing a French classic from the eighteenth century which brought an amused smile upon the faces of everyone present at the theater, including those playing the song and the choir as Gracelyn stepped further forward and began to sing the song, her inner opera singer blooming as she sang it, hiding the ache in her heart with a smile.

"_Dans les jardins d'mon père, les lilas sont fleuris. Dans les jardins d'mon père, les lilas sont fleuris. Tous les oiseaux du monde viennent y fair' leurs nids__…_"

Some of the audience began to chuckle at the little theatrics she was pulling while singing the merry song.

"_Auprès de ma blonde qu'il fait bon, fait bon, fait bon. Auprès de ma blonde qu'il fait bon dormir!_"

When it was time for the students of the Elite Music Academy to take their half-hour break, Gracelyn rushed to the emergency door backstage, completely ignoring the calls from her friends. When she finally made it outside, thanking God that no alarm blared upon opening the door, she breathed in deeply, gripping the hem of her lace cuffs, wincing slightly at the grinding feeling against the torn skin it skin underneath. Staying there for a good five minutes, she took a deep breath before heading back inside, rushing towards the bathroom to wash her face; it was a good thing she didn't wear make-up.

Spending another three minutes alone in the restroom to, refreshing herself, Gracelyn took another deep, deep breath before readying herself to join the rest of the choir. On her way, however, she caught sight of a police officer arguing with her teacher, and when she heard her name being brought up in their rather serious-looking conversation, she hesitated no second and walked over to them.

"What is it?" she butted in, her bluntness surprising Monsieur Leduc.

"Nothing you must worry about now, my dear," he quickly reassured her.

"Monsieur Le—"

"Now is _not_ the time for that," Monsieur Leduc snapped at the officer. "We have a _very_ important guest here to—"

"Now is not the time for _that_," the police officer repeated, giving the middle-aged man a stern look. "She _must_ know. She has the right to—"

"Know what?" the girl pressed, ignoring the choir gathering around to hear what was happening. "What's going on?"

"Officer Thibeault, I must object—"

"Miss Monteverdi," the officer began over Monsieur Leduc. "I give you my deep condolences."

"For wh—"

Gracelyn cut herself off when she realized what the man was implying. For a moment, she simply stood there, motionless, staring blankly at the people before her. When she finally came to, she ran off, not even knowing where she was going as the simple backstage of the theater was a labyrinth. As she ran, the music in the auditorium playing in the back of her mind, she began to sing, tears building in her eyes, about ready to fall.

"_Down once more to the bottom of my deepest fears! Down I plunge into the horrors in my mind!_" She stumbled, almost falling to the ground as she clutched her chest which was overflowing with pain. She almost couldn't breathe. "_Down the ocean flooded with all my tears!_" she cried out, leaning tiredly onto the wall nearest to her.

"Grace?!"

"Gracelyn?!"

"Lyn?!"

Her hands flew to head, her fingers pulling at the roots of her hair as her head began to pound as hard as a sledgehammer. She stumbled further, looking desperately for a way out of that place. Out of that world.

"_Losing people all the time! Drowning in my own despair! Now I'm running out of time—_" She cut herself short, halting in her quick pace when she caught sight of the worst thing she could come across at a time like this.

There, near one of the exits backstage, stood Jean, having the daylights kissed out of him by Flore, one of their classmates who was, mind you, rather slutty for a fourteen-year-old. The thing that only broke her heart even further was the fact that he was kissing her back with as much fervor, acting as though his Grace, whom he had professed his love to merely an hour ago, did not exist.

"_And it seems he doesn't care__…_"

At the sound of her voice, Jean pulled away from Flore, eyes wide like a deer caught in daylight as he stared at Grace, his own heart breaking at the look of betrayal on her face as she stared back at him, one single tear escaping her eye and running down her rosy cheek.

"Jean… why…" she whispered.

"Grace—"

"You… you've deceived me."

"Grace." Jean took a step forward in her direction, feeling suddenly distraught when she took a step backward, away from him.

"_All this time I was wasting hoping you would come around. I waited such a long time, but in the end, you only let me down_," she whispered, her voice growing louder with pain. "_And it's taken me this long, oh, but I've figured you out._"

"Grace, I'm sorry."

"_You can't just think that we'd be fine again, __'cause__, oh, this time around!_"

"**I know I promised every night and each morning—**"

By this time, Flore had snuck away, irritated that even after that make-out session she had practically forced Jean into, even after exchanging a rather awesome heated kiss for minutes rather than a few seconds, he still chose to turn to Gracelyn, apologize and try to win her back. Meanwhile, the couple that was clearly going through a break-up began to sing, Grace's mezzo-soprano overlapping his pleading apologies, surprisingly rather powerfully, despite the growing pain in her chest.

"_I don't want you to call anymore—_"

"**I know I promised talk of summertime****…**"

"_I won't pick up the phone._"

"**I'm sorry! I didn't mean to hurt you this way—**"

"_But you've hurt me, knowing I've been hurt before__…_"

"**I promise, I won't hurt you anymore—**"

"_But I don't believe you, oh, like I did before,_" she sang, her voice breaking, clearly her way of bringing this to an end.

"**I'm—**"

"_You're not sorry__…_"

The girl trailed off, looking back at him, eyes rendered almost black from heartbreak and yet red from having wept, brows scrunching in pain as her chest falteringly rose back and forth, pants escaping her plump lips.

"Grace, I—"

"Don't."

Suddenly, before either one of them could say another word, her eyes fluttered, and her knees buckled, giving out from beneath. Jean rushed forward just in time to catch the collapsing girl, shouting out for help as he held her tightly in his arms, afraid that whatever she had forbidden herself from telling him earlier might be coming true.

He couldn't lose her. Not his Grace.

**P・O・T・O・P・O・T・O **

The relief she felt when she awoke to no one in the room she'd been left in, the room 1882, was grand. She sat up as quickly as she could, ripping the tubes and needles from her face and arms, a small part of her wondering why no one had changed her out of her silk-satin gown considering she was in a hospital after all. When she couldn't find her shoes, she groaned slightly under her breath before proceeding her way out of the room and down the empty hall to the room 1870.

Surprisingly, the room wasn't empty; her father was still there, but he was no longer hooked to the life-support machine; perhaps they were going to take him to the morgue in the morning. She closed her eyes for a moment, a salty taste suddenly sliding into her mouth as she shed more tears. She rushed over to his bedside and collapsed onto the ground, her hands clasping around one of his. He was so cold. She cried harder, as that was all she knew to do at the moment.

"**Poor lonely child, so hurt, so broken, yearning for some guidance****…**" Her head snapped up at the faint, unfamiliar voice.

Sniffing slightly through her runny nose, she glanced around cautiously. "Who's there?" she asked, her voice thick from her previous sobbing.

"**Have you forgotten your Angel?**"

"Angel?" she mumbled bitterly. "Is this some kind of sick joke?"

"**Too long you've wandered on your own, straying from any protection.**"

Gracelyn began to feel a little frightened at the responses she was receiving as the voice grew louder, sounding almost as though it were two rather than just one, the voice of a man and a woman mingling into one, almost sounding like a hypnotic devilish angel. She tried to fight it, not wanting to succumb to whatever darkness threatened to take her.

"_I simply refuse to believe this_," she sang softly, shakily pushing herself onto her feet.

However, she knew she wouldn't be able to fight any longer and, soon, she would give in.

"**You simply refuse to believe that****…** **you are not alone****…**"

She caught a light shining from the window ahead, seemingly coming from the cemetery a few yards away from the hospital.

"_Who is it there, singing back to me? Show yourself, please stop hiding._"

"**I am your Angel of Music****…**"

"Angel of Music, you must be bluffing," she muttered.

"**Come to me, Angel of Music****…**"

She had no idea what compelled her to do so, but before she even realized it, within the next fifteen minutes, she was stepping past the gates of St. Micheal's Cemetery, still barefooted in her white gown, her slightly disheveled hair only half let down.

"**I am your Angel of Music****…**" the voice repeated.

"Hello?!" she called out.

"**Come to me, Angel of Music****…**"

"_Quit playing tricks, stop your deceiving, there is no Angel of Music,_" she sang back almost fiercely. "_Merely a tale, passed on through families, I won't succumb to your spell. How can I possibly believe, that you are even real? If you were truly an Angel, my father would still be here!_"

She collapsed to the ground for the third time that night, crying as she'd never cried before as she sat, crumpled on the ground, at the foot of the Monteverdi tomb, first put built after her grandfather Juliano had passed away.

"**Wandering child, so lost, so helpless, yearning for some guidance,**" the voice sang softly, seemingly coming from within the tomb.

Gracelyn refused to look up, however, her eyes shying away from the light basking around her. "_Angel or father? Friend or phantom? Have you truly come to save me?_" she whispered.

"**There is no need to doubt your angel,**" the voice repeated.

"_Angel, oh, speak!_" she replied, finally looking up and shakily pushing herself onto her trembling feet. "_What endless longings echo in this whisper!_"

"**Too long you've wandered the desert, far from a protective gaze.**"

"_A part of me still won't believe this_," she sang softly, ready to put her heart at rest so she could join her family, hopefully where they are in heaven.

She walked forward, each one of her steps trembling as she climbed up the stairs toward the growing light before her.

"**_Yet_** _my/_**your** **_heart welcomes it_****_…_**"

"_Angel, I hear you. Speak, I listen. Stay by my side, guide me!_"

Her eyes closed as she let the light and the shadows beyond consume her, body, mind, and soul. The imaginary music that seemed to suddenly audibly materialize began to play louder in her ears, the voice chanting over and over that it was her Angel of Music. At that moment, she believed it, and not once did she glance backward with a first or second thought, not once even thinking about her friends, or even Jean, whom, at that exact moment, was rushing back from the theater to see her at the hospital.

As she was engulfed by the same light that had taken her father, Jean was hit by a car, his body rocketing upward and over the vehicle, before he landed on the ground, shadows and a faint light of his own engulfing him, taking him, and Grace, to another time and place, where, perhaps there, Angels of Music truly did exist.

… or maybe not. Who knows?

**U-2097X — Surrectio  
Conclave de Restituo **

"What happened?"

"I don't know— she appeared out of nowhere!"

"… her eyes… I… I think I know who this one is."

"Well? Who is she?"

"You are in the presence of, yet, another Titor, little sister, this one just as special as the last. However, there's something different about this one."

"What's so different about her?"

"Look at her number."

"… she has no number."

"Exactly."

"… you say that like I should know what it means."

"You shouldn't. Neither should I, but I have my suspicions. It's all in the eyes."

"What do we do?"

"Nothing. Master will take care of it."

"How? She's already disappearing, and we don't even know where she's being sent off to."

"Wherever it is, I have a feeling Master is already there. She'll take care of it one way or another— she always does."

"Alright." Sigh. "What's her name?"

"Gracelyn. I feel she will do great things there. All _Juste_ have a habit of doing as such, whether intentional or not."

"How do you think she'll go about it?"

Two pairs of violet eyes stared down at the unconscious girl clad in white before looking at each other.

"_Intentionally_," they replied in unison.

"Should we send her now? I can almost hear the cry of whoever awaits her in Master's stead. Besides, she's already phasing out of here; might as well send her the rest of the way."

Shrug. "Might as well."

Two pairs of thin, pale arms hovered above the girl's body, a purple glow emanating from the four palms of hands, slowly morphing into the familiar golden glow only one other person possessed thus far as it enveloped the girl's body, which gradually disappeared from where it lay as the light swallowed her whole.

"Good luck… Gra_zialinda_…"

* * *

**Footnotes  **

**Introduced Characters**

**Gracelyn Monteverdi** is a young musician with a beautiful voice.

**Francis Monteverdi** is a former musician, and composer.

**Jean Hugo** is the childhood friend and former boyfriend of Gracelyn.

**Translations  **

**Papá/Papi**: Dad/Daddy (obviously)

**Mi Ángel**: My angel

**Ay, Dios mío**: Oh, my God

**Mi mariposita**: My little butterfly

**Vamos, mi querida**: Come now, my darling

**Mi princesa**: My princess

**"Ahora canta por mí, mi ángel; me gustaría escuchar tu dulce voz angélica una última vez." **: "Now sing for me, my angel; I would like to hear your soft, angelic voice one last time."

**Monsieur**: Mister (in French)


	3. Chapter One

**Chapter One**

**Luxembourg-Ville ** ** , LUX **  
**Thursday, April 28, 1870 **

"Francois!"

Francis Monteverdi blinked out of his reverie, reluctantly tearing his gaze away from his sleeping daughter. There, at the door, stood a man who, oddly enough, resembled his once-ago brother-in-law, who had died in a car crash.

Francis stood from where he sat on the bedside, about to counter that his name was Francis and not Francois, but before he could utter a word, the man had engulfed him in a brotherly hug. He felt awkward and out of place as this man, like the other people in that mansion, was a stranger to him, and yet a part of him relished the feeling of being embraced so, as he had not been able to be held so in a long time; not even his daughter would hug him, for fear she might hurt him as he had become so weak over the years of being so sick.

When the man holding him realized Francis was not returning the embrace, he pulled away and frowned slightly upon seeing the blank look on the Spanish-Italian man's face.

"You do not know who I am," the man stated rather than asked, a Swedish accent lacing his words.

"Not a clue," Francis replied, letting out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.

The man sighed and nodded, an understanding glint flashing through his eyes. "Comte De Chagny told me you have fallen victim from a carriage misfortune." Francis merely nodded, pretending to understand. "You have no idea what I mean."

"Not a clue."

The man sighed once more, though before he could elaborate, another man— Comte Philbert De Chagny walked into the room.

"I believe it would be best if we took the conversation into the parlor and let Gracelyn have her rest."

Francis hesitated for a moment and almost crumbled to pieces when he noticed a little five-year-old brunette had walked around him without him even noticing and was whispering softly into his sleeping daughter's ear.

"You may not remember me, but I remember you, Gracie," said the little girl, her hand absentmindedly twiddling with one of Gracelyn's dark curls. "I'm Christine, my _pappa_ said I was named after your _mamma_. Did you know we're not fully cousins? I don't know how that goes, but _P__appa_ said your mamma was only his _halvsyster_. What does it mean to be a half-sister?"

Francis sighed softly, then leaned over the little girl and placed a soft kiss on his daughter's forehead before leaving with the other two gentlemen. Meanwhile, little Christine babbled on, eyeing the older girl with sad eyes.

"I wish you were awake. I like how you sing. You used to tell me you would teach me. Would you still teach me if you don't remember me?"

"Christine! Come, it's time for dinner."

Little Christine sighed and stood on her toes to place a gentle peck on Gracelyn's cheek. "I'll see you later, Gracie," the little girl whispered before running off to join the rest of the guests and inhabitants of the house in the dining room.

Later that night, Francis was back in his daughter's room, still trying to digest the conversation he'd had earlier that evening with Philbert and that other man— Gustave Daaé, he discovered. Apparently, this version of himself was Gustave's brother-in-law. All the magical things that had happened during the past two weeks still had Francis confused out of his mind, and all his mind and heart really seemed to process was the hope that his daughter would wake up soon.

His daughter, another thing that hadn't changed while going back in time. His wife was the same in this time, but she, like in his own time, had passed away years ago. The only constant resemblance from then and his past-future was that and his daughter. Oh, his sweet Grace.

"**My little Angel, open your eyes, it seems that our dream has come true,**" he sang softly, caressing his angel's naturally rosy cheek. "**We've magically fallen into this world, where we get to start anew. Too long I've feared of leaving you without my fathering gaze; I wish to share this only with you, but you've yet to wake!**"

He kissed her forehead once again before walking over to the other side of the room, where a small statuette of an angel stood on a little wooden table by the window, surrounded with dimly-lit candles.

"**Angel of Music, if you listen, bring to me fully my daughter,**" he sang a little louder. "**God of all senses and existence, please awaken my angel. For too long I wished to give her, everything in the world. Now I've got strength and all I need, for my little girl!**"

Blinking back a few tears, he silently walked back to his daughter's bedside and leant down to give her another kiss on the cheek. "Come back to me, Angel of Music," he whispered before turning his back to the sleeping girl and heading out of the room.

For a long time, the room remained silent. Minutes, perhaps even a few hours passed before the burning candle began to flicker in the windless room, dancing on its burning match as though a gust of wind was trying to blow it out. The silence eerily echoed not only within the bed-chamber but also past the door left slightly ajar, into the empty hallways and throughout the mansion darkened from the night. Everyone was asleep.

Suddenly, a faint voice began to echo through the walls, awakening a few of the inhabitants. It was soft and yet loud. Beautiful, yet haunting.

"_Angel of Music, you called to me and led me into the light. Angel of Music, where am I now? Why is there no sun in the sky?_"

There was an edge of confusion laced upon the voice, as well as pain and sadness as it softly sang, the mezzo-soprano tone resonating throughout the large house, lulling the children back to sleep as well as the domestic animals, only spiking the interest of the older inhabitants.

"_What is this place you brought me to? It looks to be another time__…_"

In the room where the candle still burned with a dancing flame, the dark-colored eyes of the angelic girl laying on the large bed shifted away from the rather vintage-looking furniture to the only source of light in the room as she sat up.

"_Don't leave me yet without clearing the confusion in my mind!_"

Her bare feet touched the cold floor, shakily taking on her weight as she pushed herself to stand, the white gown she wore fanning down around her legs, her dark curls swishing which each step she took towards the little table where stood the little statuette of an angel.

"_Angel of Music, what haven is this? Is it Hell or is it Heaven?_" she asked, glancing around the dark room in wonder. "_Angel of Music, won't you answer? Where have I now awakened?_"

Suddenly, there was that voice again. The voice of that devilish angel, faint yet loud enough to believe it was singing her ear. "**Too long you've wandered the seasons, far from a fathering gaze. I have given you the chance to start over again.**"

"Gracelyn?"

The girl's head snapped toward the doorway, her eyes widening at the sight waiting before her. "_Papá_?"

A grin spread across both of their faces as they cried out of joy, running into each other's arms, both shedding tears of relief and happiness for the first time in a long time. As they embraced, they both began to sing to the Angel of Music, thanking it for answering their prayers.

"**Too long we've wondered if you'd hear, and grant us at least one desire.** _Now you have proven to be true,_ **_by bringing us back to life!_** **_Angel of Music, don't leave just yet; I must express my gratitude. Angel of Music, you have listened to my prayers and I thank you._**"

"**I am your Angel of Music****…**" the voice repeated.

This time, however, Gracelyn did not feel irritated.

Not once did she nor her father notice the pair of strange-colored orbs glowing gently in the darkened sky beyond the window, gazing down at the father and daughter with such warmth and kindness in its fiery gaze that seemed to burn with inextinguishable flames of gold and orange swimming in ruby-red pools that resembled that of two large irises.

Francis could only relish in the feeling of finally being able to hold his daughter in his arms after many years of being in near paralysis, while the latter could only smile to herself when she noticed the candle blow out, not even thinking of questioning this magic, as her belief in God only increased.

This was their second chance, and they were going to live it to its fullest.

**Friday, July 1, 1870 **

Morning come, a few months later, Gracelyn found herself sitting on the window seat in the De Chagny's library, five-year-old Christine sitting between her legs, playing with her porcelain doll while the older girl made her a hairdo suitable for a little girl her age; Victoire Daaé seemed to dislike the way the servants styled her daughter's hair.

Eight-year-old Raoul, the youngest De Chagny, sat on the divan, looking through a book with drawings of various different ships, while Philippe, his brother older than him by ten years, sat at his father's desk, entertained himself by waving a quill around as though wielding a sword.

Suddenly, Christine stopped playing with her doll and glanced back at the girl she obviously idolized— for what reason, Gracelyn could never guess as she had never before been idolized in her life… well, as far as she knew.

"Can you tell me a story?" Christine asked her.

Gracelyn blinked in surprise; she'd never been asked to tell a story before, except when she was in school; even then, she never told the story, but simply wrote it down as so was sometimes mandatory for her English and French courses. Gracelyn, however, found it hard to refuse little Christine, and so she smiled down at her and asked her what story she would like to hear.

Christine merely shrugged, saying she could tell any story as long as it was either folklore or a fairy-tale. Gracelyn chuckled at the reply before she racked through her brain for a story; her father told her plenty, but they were either made up, or at this point in time didn't exist yet, and she didn't want to take credit for those masterpieces, so she racked her brain a little further, looking into her memories as a child, when her mother would tell her old Scandinavian tales— that was, after all, how her father had begun with the whole Angel of Music, bringing that belief back to life.

"Alright, let's see… Ah, here we go: _there was once a young duke who had all he could ask for. He had all the luck in the world and had started with a good deal of money and a great many friends. However, when his money ran out, his friends did too. And so he found himself one night, ragged, cold, and starved, wandering through a lonely forest. He had nearly given up finding shelter for the night, when he came upon a deserted hut. The duke went in, and there found nothing but a large chest, standing in the middle of the hut. Hoping it held some scraps of food, he unlatched it and lifted the lid. Inside was another chest. He heaved out that one and opened it also but found only another chest within. This too he pulled out and opened but found still another chest inside it._

_ "Whatever's in here must be of great value, to be tucked away so well," he said, and he kept on taking out and opening chests until the floor was quite covered by them._

_ Finally, he came to a tiny box, and when he opened it, he found a scrap of paper._

_ "Is that all?" snorted the duke, and he was about to crumble and toss it aside when he noticed some words written on it. They were so faded, he could hardly make them out._

_ "Lars_ _…_ _ my_ _…_ _ lad."_

_ "Master, what do you wish?"_

_ The duke jumped in surprise. But when he looked around him, he could not see who had spoken. The Duke later found out that the voice granted him wishes and he soon wished for a big house full of servants._

_The man ruling the kingdom he lived in saw the Duke's big house and offered him his daughter, so he can marry her. His daughter was one of the kindest and most beautiful fair maidens in the kingdom, and so the Duke accepted to marry her. When the found he had everything he wanted and needed, he granted the voice its wish and gave it the paper back. It wasn't until the next morning that he realized that was a mistake when he found himself back to nothing. He made the princess go back to her father, and when her father heard the news, he ordered to have the Duke killed for causing such disgrace to his family._"

Christine gasped, and by this point in the story, both De Chagny brothers were also listening attentively to the story, their two sisters— Collette, who was in fact fourteen years old, and Annaliese, who was sixteen having joined them, sitting on the ground around Gracelyn.

"_The princess tried to stop her father from doing so as she had accepted to marry the duke, not for the convenience for her father, nor the Duke's wealth, but for the Duke himself, for she had fallen in love with him. After promising riches to the guards that would kill her husband, they heeded her order and dispatched him safely, leaving him in the woods where she had instructed them to do so and would join him soon._

_ At last the sun went down, and the duke was quite glad to see it go. But as the twilight deepened, he heard a noise far off. It grew louder and nearer, till it became a great cry and clatter. Climbing up the ridge came a caravan of seven carts, strung together in a line, and all piled high with what looked like boots. At first the duke thought the carts moved by themselves. But as they drew closer, he saw they were all pulled by one ugly little man, no more than two feet high._

_ "What on earth_ _…_ _" muttered the Duke. "I'd best play dead, till I know what's up."_

_ The duke managed to trick the little man who had previously granted his wishes by pretending he was dead, hung on the tree the guards had left him. Lars, the little, had just come by and begun to laugh at the man he thought now to be dead, taunting and mocking him._

_ "So they hanged you, did they?" said the little man with a voice the duke knew well. "It serves you right, with your _ _"_ _Lars, my lad_ _"_ _ this, and your _ _"_ _Lars, my lad_ _"_ _ that. I've worn out seven cartloads of boots on all your grand wishes!"_

_ Then Lars took the old scrap of paper from his pocket and waved it under the duke's nose. "Why don't you take it, master?" he taunted. "Why don't you read the words, master?"_

_ The duke's eyes flew open. "All right, I will." The little man froze in terror, and the duke snatched the paper from his hand. Lars, the carts, the boots, all vanished from sight in an instant. "Lars, my lad!"_

_"NOOOOOOOOOOOOO, NOT AGAIN! MASTER, WHAT DO YOU WISH?"_"

The entertained younglings sitting around her began to giggle as she did a feeble yet comical impression of the little man in the story.

"The Duke asked for the things that were taken away from him and so the little man did, and the duke and the princess lived happily ever after."

"What about Lars?" Raoul asked as both he and his brother went to grab the biscuit from the tray one of their servants had brought for them.

"Surprisingly, Lars did too, for the duke grew mindful of him and hardly ever called him after that. And when the duke himself became king, he put the paper back in its many chests and buried it under a secret marker, so Lars would never be bothered again." Gracelyn chuckled as she finished Christine's hairdo. "There are some, however, who search for that paper to this very day."

Patting Christine on the head, Gracelyn smiled at the others. "Now. The lessons to be learned from this tale are… hmm… let's see. Ah, yes: share, think of others," she said, snatching the biscuit from the De Chagny brothers' hands and handing it to Christine, for she had not had one. "Don't be greedy, for all the bad you do selfishly could one day turn on you."

The girls giggled while the boys grumbled under their breath, not happy they didn't get the biscuit. The six of them then continued their chatter for a few more minutes before they were interrupted by the sound of someone playing the piano in the parlor. The playing wasn't as smooth as one of someone having played for years, but rather slow and slightly rusty as that of someone who had not practiced in a long time.

Gracelyn smiled softly to herself, a tinge of sadness glittering in her dark eyes as she recognized the tune. She then got up from her seat and began to follow the sound of the music, the others trailing behind her, curious as to whom could be playing since no one in the household knew to play.

When they reached the parlor, Gracelyn could not help the questioning look on her face when she heard her name being mentioned. Before she could ask what they were going on about, Gustave reached a hand out to her, which she graciously took, and led her toward the bench her father sat at in front of the piano.

Once more, her father placed his hands upon the keys and let them wander, his fingers dancing from one white key to a black, the lack of practice suddenly gone as he smiled at his daughter, beckoning her, with a nod of his head, to sing.

She hesitated for a moment, not sure if she was completely comfortable with singing that song as it had been the last one she sung for and with her father. When Francis noticed the sad look on her face, he transitioned into a happier tune, his fingers jumping from key to key rather than sliding across the keyboard. Gustave seemed to know the tune as he brought out his violin and accompanied Francis.

Gracelyn couldn't help but smile when her father began to sing to her.

"**Masquerade! Paper faces on parade. ****Masquerade! Hide your face, so the world will never find you!**" Gracelyn's smile brightened as she joined in, her voice so soft it was barely audible. "**_Masquerade! Every face a different shade. Masquerade! Look around—_** **_there's another mask behind you!_**"

Everyone applauded at the little performance, and Gracelyn suddenly felt shy, her rosy cheeks darkening as she timidly glanced down at her hands neatly folded upon her lap, her smile faltering when her eyes fell upon the faintly glittering object hanging from her wool-covered wrist; it was a brass charm bracelet Jean had given her a few years ago. Just like the ring hanging from her neck, she never took it off, but unlike the latter, since she'd woken up the first time, she'd slept and bathed with it, without acknowledging it at all; she had completely forgotten she had it in the first place.

Her face saddened at the thought of Jean, and she instantly picked up with some difficulties the skirts of her green gown before excusing herself, retiring to her room. She hadn't noticed it had become so late until she saw how low the sun was in the sky, through her window. Her fingers absentmindedly fiddled with the ring hanging from her neck— she always put some effort into avoiding any thought of her deceased mother, but thinking of Jean, made her think of home, and whenever she thought of a home, she thought of herself living with her father _and_ her mother.

"That's a nice ring."

Gracelyn jumped slightly, startled by the sudden voice. She turned and found Raoul standing a couple of feet away from her. Raoul was a nice boy, though she never really spoke much with him as she had become closer to his brother; perhaps it had to do with the fact that Philippe wasn't that much older than her, compared to the age gap between Raoul and herself. Behind the blond boy, she noticed, stood Christine, seemingly fighting the urge to rush forward.

The teenage girl smiled, and Christine took that as an okay to rush forward and stick by her side, emitting a chuckle out of Gracelyn as she placed a hand on her shoulder.

"Thank you," she told Raoul. "It was my mother's."

"What was she like?" asked the boy, sitting on the bench at the foot of her bed.

The teenager smiled sadly. "I'm afraid there isn't much I can tell you about her; I wasn't fortunate enough to know her much past my toddler years. However, I _do_ know that she was a brilliant woman. Brilliant, talented, kind, and beautiful… an Angel of Music," she said, mumbling the last part to herself.

"Is there truly such thing as the Angel of Music?" asked Christine.

"Of course not," Raoul replied.

Christine frowned slightly. "But _P__appa_ said there was. Little Lotte—"

"Is just a poem, Lotte," said the boy.

"But _M__amma_ said every story has some truth in it," the little girl insisted. She then looked up at the older girl and asked, "Does the Angel of Music exist?"

Gracelyn merely shrugged, another smile playing on her lips as she replied to her what her own father had told her that evening at the St. Michel's hospital. "Perhaps, perhaps not. I can't really show you any proof of that. We each have our own angels and demons."

"… that's not really an answer," Raoul muttered.

Gracelyn laughed softly. "Let her believe what she wishes to believe in, Raoul; no one tells you to stop believing in the St. Patrick's Day leprechauns."

"Hey! Those are real."

"Really now?"

"Who else would steal my green scarves, mittens and sweater vests?"

Little Christine giggled at that before running off, only answering Raoul's rhetorical question. When the boy realized this, he yelped in surprise, then ran after her, leaving Gracelyn to herself.

Time for dinner was approaching, but since she didn't really have anything to do, she decided to make herself a new hairdo as she felt her long hair was only getting in the way. As she began to style her hair into a braided crown above her head, she began to hum to herself. Soon, without even realizing it, she began to sing the, then, infamous _Habanera_ as it was not written yet.

"_L'amour est un oiseau rebelle que nul ne peut apprivoiser. Et c'est bien en vain qu'on l'appelle s'il lui convient de refuser. Rien n'y __fait, menaces ou prières; l'un parle bien, l'autre se tait: et c'est l'autre que je préfère, il n'a rien dit mais il me plaît. __L'amour! L'amour! L'amour! L'amour!_"

"I didn't know you could sing that well."

"Oh, my—" She fell off her seat in front of her vanity, one of her fingers still caught in her braid. "Philippe! Ever heard of knocking?! What if I was… _indecent_?"

The eighteen-year-old boy blushed slightly, ducking his head as he mumbled an apology, as he helped her back onto her feet.

"But really, Gracelyn, you have a beautiful voice, possibly the most exquisite one I have ever heard. Have you ever considered performing at an Opera?"

"Me? Be an Opera singer?" Gracelyn scoffed slightly, pushing hairpins into her braid so it wouldn't fall. "Have you gone mad? I'm no performer."

"Your father has said otherwise."

The girl rolled her eyes and nonchalantly replied, "Correction, I'm no Opera performer. I couldn't hold such high, long notes or vibratos for too long."

Philippe merely blinked at her response. "I have no idea what you just said, but I can only guess those are terms musicians use, and since your father is quite the extravagant musician, I can only guess you are too."

There was a look on her face Philippe could not describe as he watched her stare back at him through the mirror of her vanity. She seemed to be deep in thought as her brows furrowed slightly and her lips pursed, before she shook her head and stood from her seat.

"I have done enough music to last me a lifetime. Plus, ever since I've awoken, it seems like my life has become a musical, for people sing every moment they can, whether it's an explanation, or just for the heck of it. I know I used to do that before, but the fact that music just randomly and conveniently resonates out of nowhere to accompany every song is rather creepy," she said, muttering the end of the last sentence to herself.

"Just give it a thought, Grace. Our fathers have already spoken of the matter with Monsieur Daaé; both he and your father are thinking of going for it. It wouldn't be too hard to have your names recognized, for you already come from a family of famous composers and musicians. _Et n'oublions pas qu'en plus de ça_, Monsieur and Madame Daaé are already pretty famous as well."

Gracelyn shook her head. "Philippe…"

"Just think of it! There's an Opera House in Paris, not too far from the _Cathédrale_. I know many people there and they know me— I can sponsor you."

She raised her brows at him, looking at him a tad bit amused at his choice of words. "Do you even know what a sponsor is?"

"I haven't got a clue."

Rolling her eyes, she explained, "A sponsor is a person or a group of people that will provide funds for a project, or in this case, my father's and my career. Are you seriously willing to do that? With money that isn't even yours, mind you."

"Oi! I have quite some savings I earned while working for my father and transitioning into my title as a Comte, thank you very much. And yes, if that means helping a friend, of course I'd be willing to put my money on the table. Grace, I may not know a lot about music and arts, but I can recognize talent when I see or hear it. And you, _ma très chère amie_, are by far the most talented singer I have ever heard… don't tell Madame Daaé," he added quickly.

The petite girl laughed softly, then sighed. "I'll heed your proposal until further notice."

Philippe smiled and nodded before holding his arm out for her to take. "Good, now I believe it is time for dinner, if you would so graciously accompany me," he said, earning himself another laugh before the pair of them went off to join the rest in the dining room.

Later that night, her father came to visit her to approach the topic she had earlier discussed with Philippe. She could tell her father wanted very much to go back into performing. Sure, it wouldn't be like in their time where the pianists could perform alone and increase their fame so, but he'd also always wanted to play amongst a grand orchestra.

"Philbert said their last pianist quit because of the Prima Donna."

"Are you certain you wouldn't?" she countered. "After all, if I'm not mistaken, Prima Donnas can be quite the divas."

Francis chuckled. "I'm sure I'll be able to handle it. Perhaps, maybe even you might think of auditioning for that position?" he tried.

Gracelyn merely chuckled and shook her head.

"Why not? My sweet Grace, just think of it!" He grabbed her hands and pulled her from her bed towards the window, where the curtains had been left drawn open and the moonlight was seeping in through the window.

"**We've fallen into this world****…**** that's shining, shimmering splendid. Tell me, angel, now when did we last choose what we want most in life?**"

She giggled softly when she recognized the melody he was using to sing.

"**Now, let's open our eyes.**" He wrapped an arm around her shoulders and motioned to the view beyond the window. "**And discover this century's wonders; over, sideways and under on this magic roller-coaster ride—** **in this new world! This new fantastic point of view. Angel, we've been given the chance to start again, now let's not waste another minute—**"

"_In this new world_," she sang softly, shifting her gaze from her father and out to the beautiful view before them. "_This dazzling place I never knew._" She turned back towards him, grabbing his big hands between her smaller ones as she smiled a slightly teary-eyed smile up at him. "_But you and I are here, so it's crystal clear that we've got a second chance and a life to choose__…_"

He smiled softly down at his little girl and leaned forward to place a tender kiss on her forehead before they both finished the song together. "**_I choose to live in this new world with you._**"

Sighing once more, Gracelyn let go of her father's hands and step backward. "Fine. We can go if that's what you truly want." Francis' smile brightened. "But I won't guarantee any audition from my part. Though thinking about it, they probably won't let me stay if I don't work there, so I'll see what job I can get."

"Perhaps a violinist," he suggested, earning himself an eye-roll from his daughter. "Or a cellist. Perhaps even my understudy…"

"_Papá_…"

"Alright fine. I'll stop. Now, the other reason I came here."

The mood seemingly dampened between them as they both turned to the little angelic statuette in the corner of her room. Gracelyn stepped forward and lit the candles around it. She then unhooked the ring from the chain around her neck and placed it on the little angel's head, making it look more like a crown than an actual ring, then stepped back to stand beside her father who took hold of her hand and pulled her into his arms.

"_Feliz Cumpleaños, Mamá_," Gracelyn mumbled, her father faintly echoing her words, wishing his wife a happy birthday in heaven.

**Paris, FR **  
**Thursday, August 4, 1870 **

The Monteverdi delayed their voyage to Paris for another month as Madame Daaé, who had been very sick for quite some time before the Daaé family had come to stay at the De Chagny summer house, unfortunately, passed away a week before her family and the Monteverdi were to travel to Paris.

Gracelyn hadn't thought she could ever feel as she felt for a stranger; she hadn't known Madame Daaé for more than two months, and yet she felt as though she had lost another mother. She didn't understand this— Madame De Chagny was just as sweet, mothering and kind, yet here she stood at the funeral, crying and even joining her father as he sang for the deceased woman.

"**E più ti penso****…**** e più mi manchi. Ti vedo coi miei occhi stanchi.**"

"_Anche io vorrei__…__ star lì con te. Stringo il cuscino, sei qui vicino._" Her voice vibrated and echoed as softly as the summer breeze.

It was silent for a moment as her father stepped forward and placed a hand on her shoulder while she threw a rose into the hole in which Madame Daaé's casket had been descended. The Monteverdi then resumed their singing, the tenor and mezzo-soprano voices molding into one another beautifully in the afternoon air, bringing a certain amount of peace amongst all of those present at the funeral.

"**_E notte fonda_****_…_****_ e sei lontano!_** _Hai il vuoto intorno senza te__…__ il sole più non c'è—_ **sono triste e sconsolato come non sonn stato mai****…** **_Senza te! Senza te! E se per caso non potessi rivederti_****_…_****_ Io so già che farei non vivrei_****_…_**"

"Gracie?" Christine asked, walking over to the older girl who instantly scooped her into her arms. "If my _mamma_ is only sleeping, why are those people in white burying her?"

"It's to keep her body warm."

Christine frowned slightly. "But I thought it was cold underground."

"Only to those who can awaken again to feel it. Those who fall into their eternal slumber need to be underground for their bodies to be kept safe and warm by the Angel of Nature. Meanwhile, the good souls are welcomed into heaven and become angels themselves."

The little girl yawned; the funeral ceremony was a long procedure, and it had been a dully long day, especially for the little girl whom had yet to understand more of the world.

"Will _mamma_ become an angel?" Gracelyn hummed in confirmation, smiling slightly as the little girl tiredly buried her head in the crook of her neck, absentmindedly playing with the tip of her long braid. "What will she be an angel of?"

Gracelyn shrugged slightly. "Perhaps an Angel of Opera," she mused softly. "And she'll watch over you, always, and sing to you in your sleep with the Angel of Music."

Little Christine yawned again. "I'm going to miss her," she mumbled softly.

"We all will," Gracelyn replied, caressing the little girl's cheek. "Rest, Little Lotte, for a long journey awaits us tomorrow."

Indeed, for the next day, at three past noon, the Monteverdi left the countryside along with Gustave and little Christine. The journey was so long and tiring, that when they arrived in Paris upon night, they instantly went to bed at the Inn they managed to rent a suite in.

Gracelyn, however, found she could not sleep at all, for she had forgotten her ring at the De Chagny summer house, and it was her most prized possession.

So, after all lights were out, she took a key with her and snuck away into the night, deciding to venture the beautiful city in its nightly glory, making sure to not go into any dark corners as she knew trouble always hid in the shadows, no matter what era you were in. It was only a matter of minutes before she found herself in the "seventh arrondissement", where, if she were correct, seventeen years from then, the construction of the famous Eiffel Tower would begin.

She passed a toy store that was surprisingly still open and went inside to purchase another doll for Christine. After she left the shop, she wandered a little further ahead and soon came across the wondrous Cathédrale De Notre-Dame. It was the most majestic sight she'd ever seen, and she knew she had yet to see the Opera House, but she was sure that even then her opinion would not change.

She climbed the first few steps then sat upon them, smiling slightly down at the doll in her hands as she absentmindedly began to sing to herself.

"_You will be my wings__…__ you will be my only love. You will take me far beyond the stars_."

She hadn't realized she was singing rather loudly and had attracted the attention of two unlikely individuals. One of them was a boy who had lived his entire life hidden away from the world in the bell tower of the Cathédrale.

The other was a man who chose to hide most of his life, mostly behind masks.

Both, however, could not help but feel hope when they heard the beautiful, angelic voice singing through the night. Hope for what, neither of them knew, but they liked the feeling, and so they relished the feeling of hope and comfort the singing voice brought to them.

"_You will be my wings__…_" Gracelyn absentmindedly wrapped her arms around herself, not having realized her cloak had fallen from her shoulders. "_You will lift me high above; everything we're dreaming of will soon be ours._"

Placing the doll on the steps of the Cathédrale, Gracelyn stood and began to sway amongst the steps, skipping slightly and gracefully twirling on her toes, completely oblivious to the two pairs of eyes watching her, one from a side of a door of the Cathédrale, the other from behind one of the angel statues a few steps below her. Neither could see the face of the beautiful angel singing, only her dark curls swishing behind her over the white fabric of her gown as she danced to the music playing in her mind, her olive skin seemingly glowing under the moonlight.

She climbed a few steps higher, nearing another statuette of an angel. "_Anything that we desire_," she sang, this time, intentionally a little louder, relishing the feeling of singing with her heart. "_Anything at all._"

She climbed the base of the statue, standing beside the angel, her head barely reaching its chest. "_Every day you'll take me higher__…_"

Suddenly, she stopped, a torn look crossing her smooth features. She shut her eyes for a moment, leaning against the stone angel, a tear slipping from her eye. _Oh, who are you kidding, Grace?_ she thought to herself as she jumped down from her spot beside the statue.

"And what are you so hopeful about anyway?" she wondered aloud. "He broke your heart, and you're still clinging on to the mere thought of him?"

She scoffed as she walked down the steps where her cloak lay wrinkled on the ground, the doll right beside it, seemingly smiling at her. She knew the doll wasn't actually smiling at her, but her suddenly foul mood only made her feel as though the toy was mocking her.

"And what are you smiling at?" she demanded.

When she realized just what she was talking to, she sighed, shaking her head as she sat back on the steps, her thin fingers twiddling the first brass charm that had been on her bracelet when Jean had given it to her; it had a swan engraved upon it.

"Maybe it's because he was my friend before he was more," she told herself.

_But why do I keep hoping_ _…_ _ for whatever it is I'm hoping for?_

She let go of the little brass swan and reached down to wrap her cloak back around her. "Maybe it's because I want to be happy," she answered herself. "Hope, after all, is a species of happiness. Unfortunately, like the great Samuel Johnson once said, much like all other pleasures immoderately enjoyed, the excesses of hope must be expiated by pain. I guess all I need is time."

She glanced up at the Cathédrale, smiling at the many stone angels. "And I do… have more time now. And God and the Angel of Music are to thank for, I believe," she said softly, curtsying in respect at the sacred, human-sized figurines. "_Merci, mon Dieu._ _Merci, mon ange._"

She reached down and gently picked the doll from the ground before climbing further up the steps of the Cathédrale, aiming for the entrance. She knew it was closed at this hour of the night, but the little basin filled with holy water was always available at the door. She didn't notice the figure peeking out from one of the side-doors when she reached the basin and reached her hand out to touch the holy water to then sprinkle some on herself. Instead, she curtsied once more, then turned her back to the large doors and began to sing anew as she slowly descended the stairs.

"_I know there's someone__…__ somewhere__…__ someone who's sure to find me soon_," she sang, gently hugging the doll to her chest. "_When the tornado ended I lost my home__…__ but I know I'll find a new one soon_."

She skipped the last few steps, completely oblivious of the man clad in black with a mask hiding his face, following her from the shadows, seemingly desperate to find out who she is, without, however, wanting her to see him.

Gracelyn didn't know why she still sang, despite how puzzled she still was about the fact that music always seemed to magically play to accompany whoever sung. Sure, she had sung quite a many times since she awoke in that era and reunited with her father, but it wasn't like she usually sang when she performed forth in her time. Now, as she sang to herself and to no one else in particular, full-on lungs, she felt as though she sounded like a rusty hinge. It was still unbeknownst to her that people were listening in on her singing, and two people in particular found the beauty hidden in her voice.

"_All games will end— no more_ _pretend_," she sang, the notes coming out more softly than the first few lines.

She halted in her step and leaned against a lamppost, a sad and yet slightly dreamy look on her face as she sang this part from the bottom of her heart.

"_Soon a_ _happy ending!_"

She twirled on her toes once more and glanced back at the Cathédrale, a desperate look on her face as she glanced through the dark up at the large cross in the center of the monument, glittering slightly underneath the moonlight. She took a few steps back toward the sanctuary, the moonlight peeking past the building and shining down upon her, and there, the stranger could now see her clearly now.

It was clear she was young, perhaps no older than fifteen years old. But she was so… oh, _so_ beautiful.

She had quite a petite frame, clearly not having reached her growth-spurt just yet. She had a pretty, oval face, with fine bone structure, her rosy cheeks seemingly prominent above her pointy cheekbones, her dark hair like a lion's mane— majestic and voluminous, yet tame— falling to her sides in shiny curls. Her nose was a cute little thing, flushed a rosy pink from the slightly cold summer night breeze, her dark, almond-shaped eyes conveying so many emotions, and yet seemingly hiding secrets of the world underneath those thick, dark lashes of hers.

"_Lord, can you hear me?!_ _If you're near me__…_"

Though this man didn't leave his cave-like home much, he had seen his fair share of woman and girls of all ages, always gazing from afar, and yet always having the first glance, and she— this _angel of music_ was by far the most naturally beautiful being he had ever had the pleasure of glancing firsthand, from afar. He couldn't even begin to imagine what she looked like up close, for her beauty, already, seemed beyond compare.

He knew she had to be new in town, for he wandered the arrondissements of the Cathédrale every night, and never had he ever come across this angel.

"_Sing your song, sure and strong!_"

She was leaving, her voice fading away into the night as she made her way towards the slightly more crowded streets. He couldn't follow her anymore, for he couldn't risk being seen by the world. Not when he had been but a _ghost_ story practically his entire life, much like the boy who lived in the bell tower of the Cathédrale. Sadly, he watched her petite figure fade amongst the crowd, relishing the memory of her angelic voice.

"_And soon__…_"

**Friday****, ** ** August 5****, 1870 **

When little Christine opened her big brown eyes, morning come, a large smile brightened her childish features as the first thing she caught sight of was the pretty porcelain doll laying on her pillow beside her. Without even thinking of changing out of her nightclothes into a new dress, she took the doll in her arms, then ran out the room, grinning from ear to ear when she found who she was looking for.

"_Tack, tack, tack så mycket!_" she squealed, jumping into Gracelyn's arms. The teenager, having caught the girl just in time as she flung herself into her, chuckled and returned the embrace the little girl gave her.

"I thought you'd like a new one since you couldn't find Mabel," said Gracelyn, referring to Christine's old doll. "I know she can't be replaced, but that was all I could think of getting to fill the void."

The girl merely giggled joyfully. "She's perfect! Thank you, Grace!"

Gracelyn smiled. "You're welcome, Christie."

Getting back on her feet, the little girl ran off once more, going to show her father the gift Gracelyn got her. After showing her doll around, the four of them dressed properly before going to find somewhere to eat a morning meal. Thankfully, they didn't have to look too far, for the Inn they stayed at, had a little dinner on their first floor, where they served breakfast and supper.

Having finished her meal first, Gracelyn announced her departure, and went ahead of the other three, in search for the infamous Opera House of Paris. The American-Canadian girl soon found Philippe had been right about its location. It wasn't so close to where they were staying, but it wasn't too far either; after reaching the Cathédrale, she hailed a carriage and made it there within the next fifteen minutes.

After she paid the carriage driver, she decided to wander around for a bit before having to get down to business. Her eyes were wide the entire time as she gaped at the architectural structure of the monument. Of course, the Palais Garnier could not compare to the Cathédrale, but it still stood in its own glory, tall and beautiful; she had no doubt the interior was just as majestic.

Having admired enough of it, in her own opinion, she silently made her way over to the entrance, suddenly feeling under-dressed in her rather plain greenish-beige colored gown and cloak compared to the woman leaving and entering the Opera House, undoubtedly employees of the arrondissement.

Though her attire was perfectly clean, and her look was far from disheveled, her long hair tied to the side into a long tight braid, she felt like a peasant compared to those women. Perhaps, in a way, she was as the only money she owned had been earned from helping out here and there at the De Chagny summer house. And, truly, she had no job just yet, and though her name was very important, even in this era despite her ancestors having pulled away from the arts in this century, she, herself, was nobody.

Taking a deep breath, she finally entered the great Opera House of Paris. She didn't know where to go to find the manager, so she approached the doorman.

"_Bonjour Monsieur._" She greeted him with a polite smile. "I'm supposed to see a Monsieur Gérard Carrière. I believe he's the manager? The Comte De Chagny sent me. He said Monsieur Carrière could arrange for my father and my uncle to join the Orchestra of this great Opera House as a pianist and violinist," she informed him, holding out a letter of introduction as proof.

Flora, a member of the chorus, was nearby, though, from the seemingly mischievous glee plastered on her face, she hadn't heard _everything_ Gracelyn had said, but merely what she wanted to hear.

"I'm afraid, Mademoiselle, that Monsieur Carrière has just been dismissed," Jean-Claude, the doorman, told her regretfully.

Just then, two other women, Florence and Fleure, joined Flora. "Guess who sent her," she told them. The three of them then turned to the clearly upset teenager and approached her.

"Dear, by any chance did the Vicomte De Chagny send you here?" asked Florence.

Surprised by the mention of her father's new friend, she nodded. "You know him?" They opened their lockets, which were a copy of one another, and her face instantly fell when she found they spoke of her friend, Philippe, and not of his father as she had originally thought.

"Dear, we're all curious. Where did he find you?" asked Fleure.

"On the countryside," Gracelyn replied simply, a little put out by the woman's choice of wording.

_"Find her?"_ While it wasn't entirely false, either, that said man had found herself and her father, she couldn't seem to understand how anyone outside the De Chagny estate would come to know of such a thing; the whole affair was entirely private, the idea a courtesy of the Comtesse De Chagny herself.

Fleure snorted in a very unladylike manner, turning to her cohorts with a smirk on her face, "He's branching out."

"Let me guess," said Florence. "He thought you had nice legs."

Gracelyn gave the woman a blank look. "Nice legs? No."

"He thought you had a nice voice," Flora tried.

"Well… there's that."

"And he asked if you'd like lessons," Florance finished.

Gracelyn smiled tightly, feeling rather bemused when she finally realized what they were getting at. "Are you all friends of his?" They nodded. "Well, I'm not sure whether this will relieve or displease you, but it wasn't, in fact, Monsieur Philippe De Chagny who sent me, but rather _Monsieur le Comte_ Philbert De Chagny, his father," she said, a glint of amusement flickering through her dark eyes as she watched them look back at her in shock. "And he didn't just send me, but my father and uncle as well. Word had gone out that musicians were needed in the orchestra, so here I am, preparing for this meeting that _is_ to take place. Now, if you ladies will excuse me, I have people to wait for."

Without another word or glance, Gracelyn walked back outside and waited for her father and Gustave, silently hoping they would be able to get these jobs despite the forced resignation of the manager they were meant to meet.

Noticing the sadness and slight defeat on the girl's face, past the glass of the doors leading in and out of the Opera House, Jean-Claude suddenly felt pity and gave in to the subconscious childish charms of the young Monteverdi. He walked out the moment her father and Gustave arrived with Christine, luggage waiting in the carriage behind them.

Nodding at the newly arrived, he looked down at Gracelyn, offering her a hand which she gracefully took in her own, allowing him to help her onto her feet.

"Hey. Come on in. Maybe the new manager will help you. Not promising anything."

She smiled brightly, gleeful over the news, even though it was yet to be one-hundred-percent guaranteed. This was already more than she could ask for. After quickly explaining to her companions what had transpired before their arrival, they followed Jean-Claude inside, where their fate would be decided.

* * *

**Footnotes  **

**Introduced Characters  **

**Christine Daaé** is the young cousin of Gracelyn's 1st cousin 4 times removed, Grazialinda Monteverdi (her great-great-grandfather's younger sister— her… great-great… second cousin…? They have a vastly extended family…).

**Gustave Daaé** is a famous violinist and Christine's father.

**Victoire Daaé** is a famous Opera singer and Christine's mother.

**Philippe**** De Chagny **is a Vicomte, eldest son in the House De Chagny, and Gracelyn's close friend.

**Annaliese**** De Chagny** is a Vicomtesse and eldest daughter in the House De Chagny.

**Collette**** De Chagny** is a Lady and the second daughter in the House De Chagny.

**Raoul**** De Chagny** is a Lord and the youngest child in the House De Chagny, and Christine's close friend.

**Philbert ****De Chagny** is a Comte and patriarch of the House De Chagny.

**Marianne De Chagny** is a Comtesse and matriarch of the House De Chagny.

**Jean-Claude Monet** is the doorman at the Opera House.

**Fleur, Flora, and Florence** are members of the chorus at the Opera House.

**Translations  **

**Mamma**: Mom (in Swedish)

**Pappa**: Dad (in Swedish)

**Halvsyster**: Half-sister (in Swedish)

**Papá/Papi**: Dad/Daddy (obviously)

**"Et n'oublions pas qu'en plus de ça […]." **: "And let's not forget that, on top of that […]." (in French)

**"[…], ma très chère amie, […]."** : "[…], my very dear friend, […]." (in French)

**"Feliz Cumpleaños, Mamá."** : "Happy Birthday, Mom."

**"Merci, mon Dieu. Merci, mon ange."** : "Thank you, my God. Thank you, my angel." (in French)

**"Tack, tack, tack så mycket!"** : "Thank you, thank you, thank you so much!" (in Swedish)

**Bonjour**: Good morning (in French)


	4. Chapter Two

**Chapter Two**

**C. Friday****, ****August 5****, 1870**

Just as Jean-Claude had said, it was, indeed, the evening on which Monsieur Carrière, the manager of the Opera, was giving a last gala performance to mark his departure.

"Dear friends," said Monsieur Carrière. "The truth is, it was time for me to leave."

His former employees booed at the news, not wanting him to leave. The man merely chuckled and softly added, "No, really, I have been here far too long. I give you your new managing directors, Benoît Lefèvre!"

There was a rather pleasant applause following the introduction of the first new manager, however, the atmosphere became rather tepid as the next one was introduced to them.

"Alain Choleti!"

By the time his "talented" wife, Amélie, was introduced, the applause coming from the staff had simply become sarcastic as none were really looking forward to a new Prima Donna considering all the other ones they had had been rather, for lack of a better term, bitchy women.

Before either, Monsieur Carrière or Monsieur Lefèvre could think of saying anything, Choleti brought the attention to himself. "This is a moment we will never forget!"

Before he could add anything else, a letter suddenly fluttered down out of nowhere. The white envelope with black coating its every line and fold was sealed with a large red skull.

"It's the Phantom!" one of the stagehands cried out.

From the seats in the auditorium, where the staff was seated as well as the Monteverdi and the Daaé, Gustave looked over to the man he believed to be his brother-in-law and frowned slightly when he noticed the hard look on Francis' face. Meanwhile, Gracelyn was eyeing the letter Monsieur Carrière held, tilting her head to the side curiously as she thought over what the stagehand had cried out.

_T__he Phantom__?_ He couldn't possibly be referring to the infamous Phantom of the Opera, could he? But then again, she was in the presence of Christine and Gustave Daaé…

Puzzled by this as well, Choleti gave Carrière a hard look as he watched him read the note. "What is going on?"

Clearing his throat, Carrière replied in a low voice, "I'll explain in my office."

"You mean _my_ office." Choleti quickly corrected himself when he noticed the look Lefèvre gave him. "_Our_ office," he said, motioning to himself and his partner.

Carrière rolled his eyes ever so subtly. "Of course. Forgive me."

He then led the new managers away, not bothering to go any further than the Opera House's main lobby, as it was empty. There, Lefèvre seemed to have no problem in understanding Carrière's every word; Choleti, however, seemed to be having quite the hard time keeping up with the former manager's explanations. Reaching the end of his rather vague explanation, Carrière handed the letter over for them to read.

The message declared simply that, "_Maurice DuBois broke the rules._"

Carrière raised his brows pensively. "Who is Maurice DuBois?"

"My wife's costume man," Choleti replied, seemingly puzzled. "She sent him to see what's down below."

Carrière chuckled softly, a bit humorlessly, then informed the new managers that there's a ghost on the premises. He warned them that they must obey the Phantom's rules to ensure that everything goes smoothly.

"If I may, Monsieur," Lefèvre spoke up. "What exactly are these… rules this "Phantom" speaks of?"

"I deeply regret having to say this, Lefèvre, but I'm afraid they come and go. Some rules change, some remain the same. He'll let you know when they do," said the former manager. "But one rule that never, _ever_ changes is the simplest one of all: don't go down below."

"Is this a joke?" Choleti demanded; he had a feeling this was just a silly prank Carrière was pulling on him for getting him fired.

Carrière merely shrugged. "Would that it were," he replied. "For as long as I've been here, so has he. He moves everywhere, he moves through doors, he moves through walls. Sometimes it can be frightening. But we obeyed his rules, and all went well."

Choleti glared at the man. "Carrière, if this is a joke, it isn't funny," he snapped.

Lefèvre sighed, exasperated. "Perhaps, if you hadn't gotten Monsieur Carrière fired so precipitously, he'd have told us all about this," he snapped at his brother-in-law.

Carrière smiled slightly at Benoît and nodded his appreciation. "As I said, it is not a joke."

A heavy picture that hung on the wall suddenly came crashing down, startling Choleti. The only reaction it got out of Lefèvre was a wary glance and a raised brow.

"Rumor has it he lives far below the Opera House," Gérard continued, completely unfazed. "On the edge of a lagoon. During the days of the Paris Commune there were torture chambers down there. That's his territory. That's his domain. That's where he lives, and anyone who goes down there does not return. He calls himself the Phantom of the Opera."

Furious, Alain continued to argue that the ghost-story nonsense was just Gérard's revenge for being fired, and then bellowed in a great shout, "I DON'T BELIEVE IN GHOSTS!"

Suddenly, a seemingly invisible force swiveled the lobby statue as though to retort that the man's remark would not stand unchallenged. The embarrassed Choleti then scuttled off, with an exasperated Lefèvre stalking behind him. Gérard shook his head as he watched them leave.

The moment the new managers had disappeared from sight, leaving Carrière on his own, a resonant voice asked, "What is going on?"

Softly, Monsieur Carrière asked the "ghost" if the DuBois man was indeed dead.

As it was a habit of his, the Phantom merely deflected the question. "Answer my question."

"Erik!" Carrière hissed.

The Phantom merely sighed from where he hid, rolling his eyes. "Yes. Yes, he's dead."

Suddenly, a lobby wall opened, and Carrière quickly entered before anyone could notice him. Behind the wall was a man clad in black. His straight and tall figure suggested he was rather young, his soft and airy yet deep voice guessing out he was in his twenties. His face, like the rest of his body, was covered, hidden behind an oak colored mask, the only visible skin being thus of his mouth and chin.

This man was the feared Phantom of the Opera, otherwise known, to Carrière as Erik Destler.

"They were warned!" Erik bellowed angrily. "The man went where he shouldn't! I had no choice!"

Carrière merely scoffed at Erik's excuse. "Of course, you did. You could have let him go."

"If I had, he'd have gone right back up, and they'd be down after me with guns and dogs in a second. He found out where I live." There was an unsettling pause before the Phantom spoke again. "And he may have seen my face! Why did you let him go down there?" he whined, not knowing that Carrière had been fired.

"I didn't know he was going down," said Gérard.

"But that's your job!"

Carrière frowned, clearly upset. "I have no job. I'm afraid I've been replaced."

The Phantom blinked, "Replaced?"

"I didn't learn about it till today. That's why this happened," said Carrière as both of them began to move through the vaults.

"These men who're replacing you— do they believe in ghosts?"

"No. I don't think either of them does, but I do believe Monsieur Lefèvre is more sensible than his brother-in-law. He did seem readier to heed whatever warning is to be heeded for the Opera to run well."

"What am I to do?" the spoiled lurker wondered.

"I don't know," said Carrière, slight defeat lacing his voice. "Frankly, I don't think making them believe will be as easy as you're surely thinking."

"If I can't, they will all be down after me, just as I feared."

"Not necessarily."

"Of course they will." The Phantom scoffed. "They'll come looking for poor old DuBois."

"They don't know he's dead," Carrière reminded him.

"They'll certainly know he's missing."

Carrière offered to handle DuBois' disappearance but admitted to having no idea what to do about the rest. The poor detested Phantom was quite upset by this turn of events.

"It's all changed now, isn't it?" the Phantom said softly.

Carrière gave him a small smile. "Erik, at best I had a few more years. You must have known!"

"I had rather hoped you would be able to pick your successor," the man in black admitted.

"Yes, alas, so had I."

"Will I… see you again?" As soon as those words left his mouth, the Phantom felt rather ridiculous and embarrassed for sounding like a needy child.

Averting his eyes, Carrière replied, "I will try."

Suddenly, a loud, quavering, donkey-subtle soprano started echoing through the underground vaults. Startled, the Phantom looked up and reached for his ears to cover them.

"My God! The place really _is_ haunted; what is _that_?!" The Phantom looked around in a glaze of torment which just faded to humorous surprise.

"Well, without looking, I would say with confidence it must be Amélie Choleti."

"Who?"

"A member of the new company," Carrière vaguely elaborated.

The Phantom gazed up in disbelief, "But she can't sing!"

Carrière chuckled at this. "Well, obviously she doesn't know that."

"Well, someone should _tell_ her," said the Phantom as though it were the most obvious thing to do in the world. "What is she doing in the star's dressing room?"

"She _is_ the new star."

Stalking over to the trap door and pulling it open only slightly, the Phantom peeked out, wincing slightly as the shrill of the soprano's voice reached his ears once more. "How in hell did that even happen to begin with?"

"She's married to one of the new managers and is the sister of the other."

Closing the trap door, the Phantom huffed. "I feel sorry for her brother. As for her husband… not only does this man not believe in ghosts; he has no taste! How did he get this position?"

"Bribery."

"Oh, lovely," the Phantom grumbled sarcastically as he began to pace back and forth. "This means she's probably going to sing all the time. What kind of horror are you leaving me in?"

"This is not my doing."

The Phantom sighed. "I know that. Wait!" He halted in his step. "You say she's married to the new manager."

"One of them," Carrière repeated. "But yes. Erik, what are we going to do about all of this?"

The Phantom resumed his back and forth pacing for a moment before he halted once more in his step, his eyes lighting up as he got an idea. "I know what to do about it. I'll kill them both."

"Oh, come on, now!" Gérard practically hollered at him.

The Phantom chuckled. "I'm teasing; probably… perhaps the only one I need to kill is _her_."

"Erik!"

The Phantom sighed. "What has happened to your sense of humor?"

"_My_ humor?" was Carrière's dry response.

The Phantom let his eyes drop to the ground, regretfully. "You're right. I'm sorry. I'm just not used to killing people; it threw me off a bit. I suppose she'll be choosing the opera season, too."

"I gather she intends to run everything."

"Then it's settled: I'm coming with you!" the Phantom suddenly exclaimed himself.

Carrière let out a tired sigh. "Erik…"

"Ah." The Phantom let out a dry chuckle as he continued. "But I can't, can I? Sometimes I forget that I am fit for nowhere but these gloomy vaults. Bereaved of light…" he continued as he walked away back to his dungeons above with a very dramatic description of himself. "Like blackness itself. For I am blackness itself, aren't I? Where are my golden tents? Where are my lambs rejoicing?"

After that somewhat amusing exchange, Carrière returned to the world above and wrote a quick letter, which he left for Amélie to read when she returned from wherever it is she had gone off to. That return proved almost instantaneous, and— scowling as she read the letter— the lady entered the Opera House and was instantly confronted by the doorman, the Monteverdi and Daaé, and her husband, who explained that Francis and Gustave had come to join the orchestra. As for Gracelyn, per her father's input, was said to receive singing lessons. She had been greatly offended and visibly annoyed by her father's false excuse but remained silent as she watched the diva completely ignore them.

"Lessons?"

"They were all sent by the Comte De Chagny," said Jean-Claude.

"And who is the Comte De Chagny?" asked Choleti.

"One of our biggest patrons."

Gracelyn kept herself back as her father stepped forward to hand their introduction letter to Choleti. "You see?" he said quietly.

Lefèvre took the letter from his brother-in-law and read it aloud, slight amusement lacing his soft tone. "_"__Give my dear friends a place in the orchestra in their choice of accompaniment. And give the girl lessons.__"_" Looking up at the family, the man nodded, giving them a kind smile. "Yes, I see."

Right then, a rather frustrated Amélie stormed past them, stalking up the stairs while completely disregarding their presence altogether as she crumpled Carrière's letter in her hand.

"Darling?" her husband called after her. "This lovely young girl would like some singing lessons. What can we do?"

Amélie merely spared the fourteen-year-old girl a glance before she voiced her decision with a scoff. "Nothing. You think this girl can sing? Look how she stands. Look at what she's wearing! Where did you grow up— on a farm?"

Gracelyn narrowed her eyes at the woman. "You must not go out often if that's the first thing you believe by simply looking at my clothes, Madame," she replied without missing a beat.

Amélie scowled at the girl, instantly catching the subtle insult the girl sent her, before snarling back at her. "The world of Opera has nothing to do with farm life!" She furiously glared at her husband. "Why are you asking me this?"

"She has a patron who's powerful," was his excuse.

"Ah." She chuckled dryly before turning her attention back to Gracelyn. "There's only one way to learn to sing. Observe singers!"

"I've had lessons before," Gracelyn bit back. "And one sure doesn't learn how to sing by merely observing— it's not like you're going to be teaching me how to draw."

Monsieur Lefèvre chuckled at the girl's boldness, a slight smirk curled upon his lips as he watched the exchange between his admittedly spoiled sister and the teenager, clearly amused.

"Gracelyn!" her father called her out on it, though he was clearly holding back a smirk as well.

The woman laughed dryly, sneering at the girl. "So, you've had lessons already. And where exactly? In the countryside, taught by a gypsy?"

"In America, actually," the girl replied calmly, internally rooting herself on when she caught the shock in the woman's eyes. "North America, to be more technical. If we're being more specific, then Toronto it is. Or as some people still call it: York. I did also have a few lessons when my father and I traveled to Italy once, but that was summers ago."

Choleti seemed to take a new shine to the newcomers when the girl mentioned his country. "You've gone to Italy?" His wife rolled his eyes at him, irritated that that would be the only thing he got out of it.

Seeing where his daughter was heading, Francis spoke up. "_E 'il luogo di nascita dei nostri antenati, così come la mia_," he said rather proudly.

Amélie didn't understand a word the girl's father said, but by the brightened look on her husband's face, she was sure he would soon give in to the family's charm which was seemingly nonexistent to her. Quickly, so, she told the girl she would only let her work in the costume department.

"She has just replaced Maurice DuBois as my costumer," she elaborated when she noticed the surprised look on her husband's face. "He has quit."

"Quit?"

"He sent me this note," said Amélie, holding out the letter which had actually been written by Carrière, the only ones to know this being the former manager himself and Jean-Claude, who had delivered it to her. "Doesn't like "the working conditions." Can you believe it? After all I've done for that man! Good riddance is what I say!"

And then she stormed off, leaving them all in the foyer, her husband scuttling after her, while her brother excused himself to tour himself around the main floor. After they were gone, the doorman looked over the wary family and asked them where they were staying. Gracelyn was the one to answer, her earlier instinctive bold facade completely gone as she timidly revealed that they had no more than a few coins left, and nowhere to go.

Taking the following decision himself, Jean-Claude guided the men to their respective rooms among the musicians' quarters before discreetly leading the girl to a storage room beneath the staircase. The room was rather spacey for a storage room, able to contain over a dozen people, excluding the space occupied by the rather vintage furniture. He told her she could lodge there for as long as her family needed and instructed her to keep an eye on the little girl clinging to the skirt of her dress and for neither to go wandering about the Opera House; this was the only available space as the Opera House was still under renovating construction. It would be another five years or so before it was wholly finalized.

With that out of the way, he bid her a good night before he left her and little Christine in the room alone.

"You're not going to be singing?" Christine asked. There was an edge of disappointment in her voice as she frowned.

Gracelyn laughed softly, astonishingly un-bitter about the "noble patron" who'd given them no help except his name, as she looked around the large makeshift chamber. "I've already got more than I can ask for, I don't need to butt heads with the Diva even more so. But if it really upsets you so much, I guess I can make a few exceptions."

Christine grinned widely at the older girl. "Do you still want to be a singer?"

The fourteen-year-old gave her a smile. "That dream will come true one day, just not as of yet. Everything takes some time."

"Will you sing something for me?"

"Of course. Got anything in mind?"

"Something slow. Oh! A love song! With a story behind it!"

Gracelyn chuckled. "Alright. Let's see…"

Placing the girl up on the makeshift bed, Gracelyn then placed their bags on a table and began to unpack. After a short silent moment, she glanced up at Christine, a strange twinkle in her eyes as she smiled fondly at the little girl.

"Have you ever heard the tale of the beauty and the beast?"

Christine merely blinked before tilting her head to the side, giving the teenager a curious look. "No."

Gracelyn smiled once more before she began to sing to her ever so sweetly. "_Tale as old as time__…__ true as it can be; barely even friends, then somebody bends unexpectedly._" She abandoned their bags and walked back over to the little girl, reaching out to untangle some of her messy curls.

"I don't get it," little Christine admitted.

Gracelyn let out a twinkling laugh as she fondly booped the little girl's nose. "Beauty and the Beast is the story of a bright young woman who's taken prisoner by a hideous beast in his castle."

Christine gasped. "A beast?"

"A beast," Gracelyn confirmed. "She later finds, however, that her imprisonment isn't so bad, for she soon befriends the castle's enchanted staff."

"En… chanted staff?"

Gracelyn giggled slightly at the little girl's skepticism. "A teapot, a candelabra and a mantel clock, among others. Including the Beast, himself."

"I've never heard that one before," Christine uttered with a soft giggle of her own, her eyes fluttering tiredly. "How does it go? What happens next?"

Gracelyn fell into a dreamy state as she continued singing the rest, explaining the change within the relationship shared between the beauty and the beast. "_Just a little change. Small to say the least; both a little scared, neither one prepared__…__ Beauty and the Beast._"

Noticing the little girl was falling asleep, Gracelyn smiled to herself and tucked Christine into the large makeshift bed, then pressed a tender kiss on her forehead. "Rest, Little Lotte," she murmured kindly before her singing resumed, lulling the little girl deeper into her slumber.

"_Ever just the same__…__ ever a surprise. Ever as before, ever just as sure as the sun will rise__…_"

Meanwhile, deeper below in the catacombs of the House of Arts, the Phantom of the Opera stood before one of his many mirrors, creating and modeling masks amongst others. When he suddenly heard the distant sound of a woman singing, he froze, his eyes shifting toward the small, roughly drawn portrait of the angel he had heard singing the other night. The image of her face was seemingly forever engraved into his mind from the moment he saw her, and he felt he just had to draw her; as if the mere drawing of her was enough of a confirmation of her existence.

"_Tale as old as time__…__ tune as old as song; bittersweet and strange,_ _finding you can change learning you were wrong._"

Noticing the impeccable resemblance in her voice and the voice of whatever woman he was currently hearing, he removed the silver-stone coated mask he had placed over his usual one on his face and stood, craning his neck slightly, suddenly desperate to hear more.

"_Certain as the sun! Rising in the east__…_"

As Gracelyn continued to sing, she wandered around the room she was lent and discovered there was another set of stairs, nearly hidden in the far-off wall at the other end of the room. After making sure Christine was well asleep, she began to make her way up the wooden steps, curious to find where they led to.

"_Tale as old as time__…__ song as old as rhyme; Beauty and the Beast__…_"

She glanced around the enclosed staircase, cringing slightly at how dusty it was; it must've meant no one had used it in a long time.

"_Tale as old as time__…__ song as old as rhyme; Beauty and the Beast__…_"

As she reached the top of the stairs, she hit the door on her right open and trailed the song she was singing to an end as she stumbled onto the very nexus of her father's dream for her: the main stage of the Opera House. Reverently, she gazed out into the arcade of seats, smiling in wonder, completely unaware of the pair of wide eyes staring down at her from the fifth box in the theater.

Her dark eyes seemed to light up even more when they fell upon the series of unmovable instruments in the orchestra pit, right in front of the stage. Her eyes became a lighter shade of an earthly greenish-brown hue as they marveled over the black grand piano. Practically jumping off the stage, she ran over to the instrument, then, a bit hesitantly at first, she stepped forward and sat on the bench, placing her delicate fingers upon the black and white keys.

Her hands sluggishly jumped across the keyboard for a moment, playing rustily and rather cringe-worthy as she marveled over the instrument's musical buttons, re-familiarizing herself with it before she finally played a string of notes in perfect harmony. Then, as the music faded off, her fingers began to dance once more across the keyboard, playing an impeccable reproduction of Beethoven's _Für Elise_, which, if Gracelyn recalled correctly, had only been published three years prior the present she was currently living in.

The Phantom was impressed; never had he heard of any women capable of playing any instrument as they mostly just sang or danced. This girl knew how to sing and play one of the world's greatest instruments; he wondered what else this little angel was talented at. He watched as her fingers lingered upon the keys before her shoulders dropped and she stood from her seat and climbed back onto the stage. There, she began to look around, looking over the props left onset.

She began to hum a soft melody, striking the Phantom's intrigue even further. He became slightly amused when she suddenly grabbed a prop of a sword and grinned a rather childish grin before killing a prop of a knight that stood nearby. It made a horrible racket and she was clearly going to make a run for it.

Quickly changing her mind, she rushed forward and put everything back as it was before she walked back to the center of the stage, her previous humming growing louder and somewhat sadder. It was nothing like what she had sung the night before when he found her by the Cathédrale. Then, she was sad but so full of hope. Now, as she began to add words to her humming, it was as if a completely different part of her was singing. As if the previous night, it had been the child within her that had been singing, a child so full of hopes and dreams…

As if now, within merely a day, she was a grown woman, broken and bruised, all her scars merely hidden from the naked eye.

"_Your eyes see but my shadow__…_"

She paused, a slightly confused look crossing her face; it was almost as though those were her words and yet weren't. As though someone was writing the words and typing them into a part of her brain that would just blurt it out through her mouth before she could even process the words herself.

"_My heart is overflowing. There's so much you could come to know__…_"

Gracelyn didn't realize it until she suddenly tasted something salty on the tip of her tongue, but she had started crying. Still, she did not stop singing.

"_You're content not knowing__…__ tenderly__…__ you could see__…_" She subconsciously brought her hands up and clutched her chest. "_My soul__…_"

When she sang the last words, her eyes closing as she reached the extremely high note with ease, her eyes quickly snapped open, and a pained and slightly frightened look crossed her face as she tightened her grip on the fabric of her gown covering her chest.

"What is happening to me?" she mumbled.

The Phantom had to step backward and hide amongst the shadows of his box as he watched her desperately glance around as if looking for someone. Then, she began to sing again, though this time her voice held less strength than it previously had, he noticed. She sang softly, almost timidly as she continued glancing around with those big dark eyes of hers.

"_Ange de Musique, que __m'arrive-t'il__?_" She realized she began to sing in French, but she put no effort to revert to her own language. "_Pourquoi ai-je __tant __mal au cœur? Je croyais que ce nouveau départ exclurait toute douleur. Pourtant vous m'aviez bien dit que je n'aurais pas à m'inquiéter. Mais cela est inévitable, et j'ai peur à en pleurer._"

Her hands slipped from her chest to her biceps, her arms wrapping around herself as if trying to shield herself from a sudden cold. She gazed around once more, desperately, waiting for what, the Phantom knew not. He watched as the girl swallowed hard, a broken look crossing her face.

"Where are you, Angel of Music?" she mumbled.

When she found not what she was waiting for, she sighed softly, gaze falling sadly to the ground, as she turned on her heels and began to make her way back to the stairs, making sure she closed the door behind her.

The Phantom quickly rushed from his box, down the halls, all the way to the backstage, desperate to catch her, though as soon as he reached his destination, she was gone the way he usually was, having seemingly disappeared into thin air. He couldn't believe that could be possible— he knew every inch of the Opera House, there couldn't be a part of it he did not know. There just couldn't.

Frustrated he couldn't catch the angel in time, he huffed under his breath heading into one of his many hidden passages, stalking off into the deepest part of the Opera House, to the catacombs where he lived, vowing to do everything he could to find that angel for whom he had yet to figure out the name.

**Thursday, August 11, 1870**

"Monsieur?! Monsieur!" Madame Giry, the ballet mistress' assistant, huffed when she got no reply. "It would be much easier if he just told me his name."

"But then, I wouldn't be amused as I watch you look for me," the Phantom's voice echoed throughout the stone staircase that led down to the cellars of the Opera House. "What are you doing here, Antoinette?"

"Well, someone has to keep you fed," she retorted, the large tray filled with morning's breakfast jostling slightly in her arms.

A door-sized part of the stone wall beside her suddenly slid open, and, without a moment's hesitation, she went in, going down another flight of stairs until she reached the small flowing river amongst which was floating a small canoe. There, standing upon it was the man clad in black.

"Were you doing a mask fashion show again?" She motioned to the black mask she was sure he placed over his usual mask.

"Perhaps."

She rolled her eyes at him. "Where have you been?" the woman then demanded, talking as a mother would her child. "I awoke earlier today to find you and get you your morning meal, but everywhere I knew you could be, you were not. You… you…! Why must you act like such a Phantom, you… phantom?!"

"Well, that is my name." The Phantom merely chuckled.

"Oh, right, I forgot it has become a given name nowadays," Madame Giry replied ever so sarcastically.

This time, the Phantom let out a soft, deep rumble of laughter as he motioned for her to join him on the canoe.

She shook her head and handed him the tray of food. "I must go back up. The lunch break will soon be over, and I will have to get back to assisting Madame Girard with the ballerinas."

The Phantom was silent for a moment as he relieved the woman of the weight in her arms. "Have there been any new workers recently hired?" he suddenly asked.

Madame Giry blinked, surprised by the question. Warily, she asked him why he was asking her this.

"Just curious," he replied.

"You are never curious, Monsieur," she retorted with a roll of her eyes. "Why do you wish to know?"

"I…" He hesitated for a moment, then told her. "I heard someone singing last night."

"Ah," mumbled Madame Giry. "If your ears still hurt, it was probably just Amélie… _practicing_."

The Phantom snorted. "I heard _that_. I meant later last night. Whomever it was, I heard her a few nights ago, and the night before then as well, near the Cathédrale. She has the most angelic voice I have ever heard. And she's as beautiful as I imagine an angel would be. Dark hair, dark eyes… and yet the purest complexion I have ever seen."

Madame Giry did not reply; she knew who he was talking about, and though she had not heard the girl sing, she had an inkling feeling it was the one she was thinking of at that moment. She refused to say anything as she listened to the Phantom describe the girl she had met earlier that week in a rather dreamy tone; the girl was… well, just a girl. A young one at that. And the Phantom was a man who was merely six years younger than Madame Giry herself, and she wasn't as young as she used to be anymore. Her three-year-old daughter was proof of that.

"I'm going to stop you right there, Monsieur," said Madame Giry, unable to help herself.

She had only known Gracelyn for a few days, but despite the large smiles she gave everyone, the woman could practically see all the sadness in the world in those dark eyes of hers. She could tell that, despite how happy she seemingly was, working at the _Populaire_ and just getting to be with her father, that she was lost, sad and broken, and though the Phantom was so as well, she knew there was a great chance things might turn for the worse if they ever encountered.

"You know exactly who I'm talking about," stated the Phantom.

"And we both know that who you are speaking of is but a child."

"Dear God, Antoinette! I wasn't—"

"Yes, you were, Monsieur," she snapped. "You may not have realized it just yet, but you have already fallen in love with the voice of a person you do not know. A voice is nothing without its wielder, and, with a simple look, you've already fallen in love with her face as well. She does not need this—"

"What is her name, Antoinette?"

Madame Giry gave him a hard look. "You do not need to know that."

"What is her name?" he repeated through gritted teeth, his eyes staring down at her fiercely.

"I will not give you that satisfaction," she replied stubbornly. "Stay away from her, Monsieur. I may not have known her but a few days now, but I can already tell she's suffered a great deal in her life. She does not need a… a phantom coming after her!"

The Phantom's eyes softened at this. "I mean no harm to anybody, Antoinette, especially not her."

"And what of this man who suddenly disappeared last week? Hm? Monsieur Carrière wouldn't say anything, but—"

The Phantom sighed. "It's not as bad as you think."

"Oh, I'm certain it is exactly as bad as I think. You killed him, didn't you."

"He wasn't supposed to be down here in the first place," he defended himself.

Madame Giry rolled her eyes. "I'll leave you to your… phantoming," she muttered, heading for the stairs. "Oh, and stay away from Grace—" She quickly cut herself off, mentally cursing herself for her slip.

The Phantom smiled; perhaps it was not the girl's full name, but it was part of it. A part that suited her quite well.

"Thank you, Antoinette."

The woman merely grumbled under her breath as she instantly understood what his gratitude was directed towards. Groaning slightly, she hurried up the stairs, disappearing from the Phantom's sight.

"Grace," he repeated softly to himself as he placed the tray of food inside his canoe before he began to paddle away from the small bank, down the river to his home. He kept repeating the girl's name, in his mind and aloud, until he reached his dining table situated deep within the cave accommodated in a rather luxurious fashion.

He sighed as he relished in the memory of her voice; she'd snuck back unto the stage every other night since the last Friday, and every time he heard her, it was like the first time all over again— oh, so breathtaking. Whenever she didn't appear, however, he thirsted for more, and sought to find where it is

"Where is she now?" he wondered. "Where can she be?"

Then, he began to sing, his deep baritone voice echoing throughout the cave he lived in, raw with emotion, and yet soft as if she was right there in front of him and he was afraid he might scare her away.

"**When will she come again****…**** calling to me?** **Calling to** **me****…** **calling to me****…**"

He walked to his mirror where the drawing of her hung on the corner of the frame, smiling down at him.

"**Somewhere there's a girl who's like the shimmer of the wind upon the water.**" His hand reached out, aching to caress the flesh of her rosy cheek. "**Somewhere there's a girl who's like the glimmer of the sunlight on the sea****…**** somewhere there's a girl who's like a swell of endless music.**"

His eyes swept over to the area where his instruments were neatly displayed as he suddenly wished she were down there to bring light to his dark home, to turn his hell into heaven with her beautiful, angelic voice.

"**Somewhere she is singing and her song is meant for me****…**"

He had never felt hope for light upon his dark, cruel world. But now that he did, he didn't want to let it go.

"**And her voice****…**" He sighed. "**It's sweet as angels sighing. And her voice! It's warm as summer sky. And that sound****…**** it haunts my dreams, and spins me 'round until it seems I'm flying****…**" He looked back at the drawing of her, a dreamy look glazing over his eyes. "Her voice!" he softly exclaimed himself.

He ran back to his canoe, his food long forgotten as he all but jumped into the small boat and made his way back down the small lagoon, to the bank that led to the staircases, which, in turn, led to the world above. The world he knew she would be in.

"**I can see her smiling in the moonlight as it settles on the floor.**"

He hurriedly got out of the canoe and pressed a camouflaged switch in the wall, opening the passage he had earlier let Madame Giry through. Once having passed through it, the wall closed behind him.

"**I can feel her waiting just beyond the pale horizon****…**" He climbed up the stairs and went into another hidden passage from the upper levels. "**Singing out a melody too lovely to ignore! And her voice****…**** it's there as dusk is falling. And her voice! It's there as dawn steals by.**"

Rather soon, he was nearing the left wing of the backstage.

"**Pure and bright, it's always near! All day, all night, and still I hear it calling****…**** her voice****…**"

Finally, he reached the wall panel he was looking for, pressed the switch to slide it open, then went through, keeping to the shadows as he zeroed his eyes upon her, completely ignoring the rest of the staff grabbing their things as they readied themselves to leave for the day. He watched her with a sudden adoration filling his whole being as he removed the black mask from his face, revealing his oak colored mask underneath it.

"**Strange as a dream****…**"

His voice came out ever so softly, the hype he was feeling earlier as he rushed through his secret tunnels completely gone, his blooming rose of a voice suddenly but a bud as it almost timidly, yet ever so dreamily sang for her. And yet, the girl seemed to hear it so clearly, a shiver running down her spine as she halted in her step, her eyes snapped up and warily glanced around.

"**Yet real, so it seems.**"

Her eyes were suddenly hopeful as they desperately searched for the source of the beautiful male voice.

"**If you can hear me now come set me free****…** come set me free…"

His voice trailed off in a whisper, awed by the emotions flashing through her dark eyes. She was far enough away that one wouldn't normally be able to see what lie behind her dark lashes, and yet here he was, hiding amongst the shadows, relishing the discovery of all those emotions flashing through her eyes as someone would relish the discovery of a new world wonder.

"_Who is it there__, __who's singing to me? Show yourself, please stop hiding._" Her voice came out ever so softly, twinkling like a tiny bunch of wind chimes in a breezy summer night. She abandoned her cart full of shed costumes and walked away from it, nearing the spot he was hiding it. "_Quit playing tricks, please stop and tell me; is it you, Angel of Music?_"

Her rosy cheeks darkened when the sleeve of her bright blue dress slid down her shoulder. She quickly pulled it back up and glanced around as though to make sure no one had seen such indecency happen.

"_I have been calling out to you, ever since after that night. I have more questions to ask you of this pain I feel inside__…_"

She was so close to him right then, and all he wanted to do was take her away from the world and shield her from it. Cure whatever pain she was feeling and keep her by his side where he knew he could protect her.

"_Angel of Music, speak, I'll listen. Please don't leave yet, stay and guide me. Angel, my soul is weak and hurting. I beg you please, come and help me__…_"

Truly, he wouldn't have cared if he blew his cover; he would've answered her, had it not been for the other man who walked up behind her. There was love in his eyes as he looked down at the girl, and that made the Phantom's blood boil. However, his sudden anger was replaced with relief when she greeted the man aloud with just the word to calm his nerves.

"_Papá_," she said softly. "Your performance was amazing."

It was then that the Phantom recognized the man to be the new pianist he'd heard whispers about all morning. He'd heard the man play as he traveled through the tunnels, looking for the girl, and she was right. His playing was, indeed, amazing; he was by far the best pianist he'd had the pleasure to hear play in his Opera House, other than himself of course.

"You flatter me," he replied, and both shared a small laugh as though reminiscing an old joke.

"Have you seen Christine?"

"If you speak of this little Alice, please try and keep her away from the stage," said Madame Giry, seemingly appearing out of nowhere with little Christine fast asleep in her arms. "She was in the ballerinas' dressing room, asleep near the makeup kit."

"Oh." The girl blew a strand of her long fringe away from her face as she quickly rushed forward and hurried to take the sleeping little girl from the woman's arms. "I'm so sorry, Madame Giry. And thank you."

"It is no problem at all, _child_," replied Madame Giry, pointedly loud, as though knowing the Phantom was nearby, listening in.

She then bid them a good day before turning on her heels and stalking off, leaving the two Monteverdi and little Christine there alone. Gracelyn then told her father to go rest.

"You have to wake up early tomorrow to resume the intense rehearsal you've got going on, what with practicing getting back into playing, and learning the new plays…" she told him in a hushed tone. "I'll take Christine back to our… erm… room, then I'll come finish up here before going to bed as well."

"Speaking of which," Francis began before his daughter could even attempt to walk away. "Where are you staying?"

Gracelyn's rosy cheeks suddenly darkened as she began to fiddle with the curls of the sleeping girl in her arms. "Erm… it may or may not be a storage room?" Her reply came out as a question rather than a statement.

At the sound of this, both Francis _and_ the Phantom became angry; a storage room was no place for a young lady, even less a child, to sleep in. Unable to stop himself from expressing his anger, the Phantom kicked the object nearest to him, which so happened to be an empty metal bucket. The hit knocked the bucket down from the stairs, creating a loud racket, startling both Monteverdi as well as Christine, who stirred awake in Gracelyn's arms.

"Gracie?" the little girl mumbled.

Gracelyn stroked her cheek soothingly, hushing her softly. "It's alright, I've got you, Little Lotte." A small smile reached the little girl's lips at her nickname. "Go back to sleep. I'll take you to bed in just a bit."

Christine let out a small yawn as she wrapped her arms around Gracelyn's neck, burying her face in her collarbone as she nodded herself to sleep.

Francis smiled slightly, amused. "Little Lotte?"

"It's from a story Monsieur Daaé's told her before. She's as obsessed with it as you are with the Angel of Music. Actually, come to think of it, your obsession could probably rival his; the original Little Lotte mentions no Angel of Music, and yet he somehow mingled it in it."

Francis chuckled softly before he grew serious. "Gracelyn, why didn't you tell me they left you in a storage room?"

"It's fine," she reassured him. "It's a little dusty, I'll give you that. But it's spacious enough for almost a dozen people. When I start earning some francs, I'll buy a good bed and more clothes for Little Lotte here and I to put in the wardrobe we have there."

Francis groaned. "You don't even have a bed?"

"I'll make do, _Papá_, don't worry. I've got a makeshift one, comfortable enough for both, Christine and I. It's only for the meantime."

"But you work here now! They should've given you a proper room!" The Phantom couldn't agree more.

"It was the only available place we could bunk in. There are no other individual rooms left unoccupied."

"You should've told me, _mi __ángel_, I would've let you stay with me."

Gracelyn gave her father a fond smile. "Not that I would mind, Dad, but remember _when_ we are now. This may be a whole new world, but it's also a whole new time. And in this time, no matter what way we are related, it wouldn't be proper. Besides, I really don't want to bring unwanted attention upon us."

Francis sighed. "Gracelyn…"

"It's fine, _Papá_. _Really_. The room is fine and, frankly, I prefer the storage room than bunking with the "ballet rats" as Madame Giry calls them. They are all nice, but they all talk far much more than I can handle. Too much gossip goes on between them, and as much as I adore Christine, I don't want her clinging to my dress all the more than she already does." She gave him another smile before shoving him slightly with her elbow. "I appreciate your concern, but you need to go rest now, _Papá_; I'll see you tomorrow."

Sighing softly, Francis ran a hand over his face, suddenly looking rather tired, before he leaned forward and placed a soft kiss on her forehead. "_Te deseo buenas noches, mi princesa_."

Giving him a bright smile, Gracelyn placed a kiss on her father's cheek, then replied, "_Buenas noches, Papi._"

"Oh, and happy birthday, _mi __ángel_."

Gracelyn's eyes widened upon hearing this; she had forgotten all about that. Giving her father a small smile, she whispered her gratitude. After her father left, she began to hum when she felt Christine stir in her arms again. Very carefully, she made her way out of the auditorium, to the lobby, then to her room, managing to not jostle the little girl in her arms. Once inside the storage room, she went and placed little Christine into the makeshift bed, caressing her cheek when she awoke slightly frightened upon seeing Gracelyn about to leave the room.

"I'll be right back," the fifteen-year-old reassured her. "I've just got to put some things away; I won't be long, alright?"

Christine relented, accepting the older girl's answer before nodding herself back to sleep once more. Smiling slightly to herself, Gracelyn leant forward and pressed a soft kiss on the little girl's forehead, just as she had done many times to her father when he was sick, and he to her when she was younger and even still at the present. Blowing out the candle on the little movable she adopted as a night table, she turned on her heels and silently made her way back to the auditorium.

The Phantom lurked in the shadows of the orchestra pit when she walked back onto the stage. He watched as she silently began to put everything out of order back in its place, rolling along the cart full of costumes, filling it up as she went. Suddenly, he became angry anew as he watched this talented and beautiful artist have her talent wasted in gathering costumes, mopping floors, and performing other non-vocal tasks, while he could hear the diva prancing about in her room, instead of rehearsing her role as she should.

He had to do something about it. But what? His mind suddenly went blank as he heard her humming anew. Even her humming sounded beautiful. He was decided then; he would put his plan into action the following day, for as she said, everyone would start rehearsing _very_ early the next morning.

* * *

****Footnotes****

****Introduced Characters****

**Gérard Carrière** is the former manager of the Opera House.

**Benoît Lefèvre **is the new co-manager of the Opera House.

**Alain Choleti** is the new co-manager of the Opera House and Lefèvre's brother-in-law.

**Amélie Choleti** is a Lefèvre's younger sister and Alain Choleti's wife, and the new Prima Donna of the Opera House.

**Erik Destler** is the infamous Opera Ghost, also known as "The Phantom", a ghostly musical genius and long-time resident of the _Opéra Populaire_, as well as Gracelyn's new secret admirer.

**Antoinette Giry **is the ballet mistress' assistant.

****Translations****

**"E 'il luogo di nascita dei nostri antenati, così come la mia."** : "It's the birthplace of our ancestors as well as my own." (in Italian)

**"Te deseo buenas noches, mi princesa."** : "I wish you a good night, my princess."

**"Buenas noches, Papi."** : "Good night, Daddy."


	5. Chapter Three

**Chapter Three**

****Friday, August 12, 1870** **

Gracelyn began her job the next day without a problem, for she had been taught everything she needed to know during the first three days of her stay and had easily fallen into her new routine. Being the fast learner she was, she picked it all up very easily; it didn't even matter that things were completely different in 1870, she was always quick to adapt, and could— somewhat— easily proceed about in this new life as a natural.

That morning, with a few francs she had earned in advanced from her co-workers for helping them with some hard tasks the past few days, she left extra early, leaving Christine with her father as she went to the bakery she had found a few days ago upon their arrival in town; she'd wanted to go there for a while, but hadn't found the time until today.

"_Bonjour, Mademoiselle_."

Gracelyn gave the baker a bright smile. "_Bonjour, Monsieur_," she greeted him kindly. "Do you, by any chance, sell pastries in bundles?"

"Why yes, we do," the baker replied. "How big a bundle are you looking for?"

"How much is your biggest?"

Her genuine "childish innocence" charm got to him and he offered, "For you, I could bring it down to twenty francs," showing her a rather large basket of pastries; she could feed everyone in the company, and there would still be some left!

Her eyes widened; she still wasn't all too familiar with the currency from that time just yet, but she knew twenty francs wasn't much for the quantity he was offering. He was a nice fellow, and with the fatherly smile on his face, she knew he could tell she was new to town, and though she had more than enough to pay him the double of what he was asking for, she didn't want to take advantage in using whatever charm that was working wonders on him.

"Twenty francs?! But I couldn't possibly—"

"Nonsense, _ma chère_. Think of it as an early celebration gift for _the Assumption_."

_That's right_, she thought, recalling the French holiday she had learned of in school. _The Assumption of Mary,_ _the bodily taking up of the Virgin Mary into Heaven at the end of her earthly life,_ _was a holiday still greatly celebrated in this provincial era._

The French in this time took great religious holidays very seriously, so there was no way she could refuse his offer now after using _the Assumption_ as an excuse. She gave him a small smile, puffing out a small breath that blew a strand of her nose-length fringe out of her face, then nodded, accepting his offer.

After paying him, she was on her way back to the Opera House, only halting twice in her pace, the first being her noticing a library nearby, and the other was crashing into a gentleman. She couldn't remember much of what he told her as her attention was still on the small library, but she could remember him to be a pretty egotistical man by the mere sound of his voice, so she was quickly on her way, muttering a small apology for bumping into him, completely ignoring him afterward as he called out after her and tried to stop her from walking out on him. She was lucky the street began to fill itself with plenty of people and she lost him in the crowd.

When she entered the _Populaire_, the first person she greeted was Jean-Claude. She thanked him for the umpteenth time for finding her a place to stay, then gave him a pastry, placing a soft kiss on his cheek before, once again, going on her merry way. Each of her co-workers she passed, she handed out a pastry, even giving one to Madame Giry, Monsieur Lefèvre, and Choleti.

She left the rest of the basket backstage, where anyone was sure to grab some, and only took a few with her in a smaller basket, placing one on the piano, smiling at her father as he settled on his bench and spread his music partitions out in front of him.

"Good morning, _Papá_," she greeted him warmly. She gave Gustave a bright smile as well when she handed him his own pastry. "Good morning, Uncle."

"Good morning, Grace," they both greeted her in return, thanking her for the pastries before getting into position as the rest of the musicians joined them in the orchestra pit, all thanking the girl as well for the pastries she had left out for them.

As she headed backstage, quietly walking through the curtains to the left wing, she soon found herself being practically tackled to the ground by Christine. She laughed wholeheartedly as she returned the little girl's embrace and greeted her. Christine was then quick to accept the pastry she was offered before introducing her new friend to Gracelyn, a little blonde girl about a year or two younger than Christine. She hid behind her, looking timidly up at the fifteen-year-old.

"Her name's Meg, she's Madame Giry's daughter."

The little blonde girl shyly waved at Gracelyn from where she stood, semi-hidden behind Christine. The fifteen-year-old gave the little girl a warm smile before offering her a pastry as well. The girl's eyes lit upon seeing the sweet bread and smiled back ever so brightly as she took it from the older girl's hand.

"Thank you," she said in a small voice.

"You're welcome, Meg. Now, you girls keep out of trouble, alright? You can sit in the first row of seats in the auditorium if you'd like; don't wander off, and the dressing rooms are off-limits, am I understood?" said Gracelyn, giving Christine a semi-stern look as the little girl merely gave her a sheepish smile in return before stuffing her face with her pastry. "I need to get to work, so you best behave. If you do, I'll get you both some more pastries later, alright?"

Her reply was an enthusiastic nod from the pair of little girls before they ran off, leaving the girl to chuckle to herself as she set the empty basket where no one would trip over it and got to work.

Her work began with gathering the newest costumes from the seamstress of the Opera House, Madame Laurent; if she recalled correctly from the posters displayed outside the building, on her way back to the _Populaire_, the Paris Opera's season would begin with Norma, featuring Amélie in the title role.

When she had asked Madame Giry about it, it turned out that it was apparently musically hilarious, even for the strict woman, because Norma is actually one of the most notoriously difficult soprano roles in the entire opera repertory, and from what she learned, Amélie can't even sing individual notes without the hearer longing for death. Gracelyn didn't believe the woman was as bad as, quite literally, everyone made her out to be, but she could only guess she'd have to wait to see if what they said was true.

Gracelyn's next stop, after the seamstress' quarters, was the Prima Donna's room. She didn't hate the Diva, but she was starting to dislike her even more than she previously had as she walked in on a demonstration of her egotistical-self.

"Darling, tell me the truth. How do I look?" the woman asked her husband.

Her long, tight thick braid draping over her shoulder as she turned her face away from the couple, Gracelyn walked over to the mannequin over which she would have to put Amélie's next costume on display, she found herself nearly chocking over her own saliva as she listened to the way Choleti began to compliment his wife.

"You look like spring. No, better. You look like a young spring. Like a spring that is not yet even spring."

Gracelyn could only pray to God that Monsieur Lefèvre didn't act like an ass-kisser around the woman as well as she bit her lip to keep herself from laughing.

"Like spring that is about to become spring," he went on, clearly relieved as his wife smiled at his compliments. "That is winter—"

"Ah!"

Choleti quickly corrected himself upon his wife's glare and yelp over the clearly unintended insult. "No, no, no, no, no! No, it's not winter—" Gracelyn snorted softly under her breath. "It's spring, definitely spring."

That earned another smile from Amélie. The woman turned to her husband and placed a gentle hand upon his face. "You wouldn't lie to me, would you?" she asked in her thick French accent.

"No, of course not, my love," Choleti replied as they began to share what Gracelyn recognized as an Eskimo kiss, making her cringe at the sight; the Choleti were the strangest couple she'd ever met.

When she was done with her work in the Prima Donna's room, she quickly rushed back to the stage, helping adjust the dancers' costumes, handing a few of them who were sitting on the side some coats and shawls as it was rather cold backstage.

"What are they rehearsing?" she asked softly to Flora as she placed a cloak over the woman's shoulders; she recalled the opening play would be _Norma_, and though she was no expert when it came to Opera plays, she knew what they were rehearsing was far from being _Norma_.

"Gounod's _Faust_," Flora replied as she relaxed under Gracelyn's working hands which gently secured the drape over her shoulder, pinning it ever so subtly to her dress with a few pins so it wouldn't fall off. "The story of an ugly old man who sells his soul to the Devil."

"Why?" the girl asked distractedly.

Florence, who stood nearby, snorted. "Why do you think? For the love of a woman." Florence then turned her attention to a newcomer and walked away from them to greet him. "Pierre!"

The man she greeted, Gracelyn found, was one of the main actors, seemingly the one who was going to portray the Devil in this play, from the looks of his costume and makeup. Noticing her looking at them, he moved past Florence and lifted the girl's face up by her chin, gazing down at her ever so warmly.

"Who is this little one?"

Clearly the baker wasn't the only stranger easily lured in by her genuine "childish innocence" charm.

"I'm Gracelyn, Monsieur."

"She's the daughter of the new pianist," said Fleur, draping an arm over Gracelyn's shoulders.

The man smiled. "Ah, another Monteverdi. Would you, by any chance, be as talented as the others before you whom have shared your surname?"

Gracelyn blushed at this. "I wouldn't know about being as talented… but, I guess I do know my way around singing as well as a few instruments here and there."

The grownups all chuckled as her modesty, all of them completely unaware of the Phantom's presence; said man was watching them from the shadows, anger building up inside him as he watched with burning eyes the close proximity between Pierre and Gracelyn. Unable to watch any longer as these people took the liberty in physically getting so close to his angel, despite having no ill intentions toward her, he slipped into another passage, completely unaware that a certain pianist had actually seen him from where he sat in the orchestra pit, only half paying attention to his own performance. Of course, Francis had to pay the rehearsal his full attention once the Phantom was no longer in sight for him to see as Monsieur Acquard, the play director stopped the actor that was currently singing rather morbidly, despite his fine voice.

The actor portraying Doctor Faust, whose name Francis did not bother to learn just yet, was supposedly announcing his despair in a passionate song, while lifting a cup and then dropping to his knees, evidently intending to swallow some deadly brew, when Monsieur Acquard stopped him.

"No, nooooo!"

The music immediately came to a stop. Monsieur Acquard strode to the stage and sat down next to "Faust," who slumped in frustration, evidently having ran this scene some eight thousand times and ready to down a real goblet of cyanide by now.

"This is poison, not soup!" snapped Monsieur Acquard. "You're drinking it because you want to kill yourself, not to enjoy a meal. This is because you despair! NOT HAPPY!" Gesturing to the musicians, he said, "Take it from _"__la la la la.__"_"

"From where?" Monsieur Reyer, the music conductor, asked, giving the man a skeptical look.

""_La la la la!__"_" was Acquard's exasperated reply.

"I think he wants Mephisto's entry," Francis piped in.

The rehearsal resumed, and Pierre, who portrayed Méphistophélès, appeared. He was a wonderfully campy bass-baritone who acted the diabolical role beautifully; enchanted, Gracelyn stopped her work to watch, a small smile gracing her face.

"**Me voici,**" he sang. **"****D'où vient ta surprise? Ne suis-je pas mis à ta guise? L'épée au côté! La plume au chapeau. L'escarcelle pleine, un riche manteau sur l'épaule. ****En somme****…****. un vrai gentilhomme!**"

Gracelyn giggled softly as Pierre dramatically pretended to drink from the goblet Alfredo, the actor playing Faust, held earlier. Her smile faded slightly when she felt eyes upon her, but she shrugged it off, not taking her focus away from the rehearsal as she resumed her work.

She walked about in the backstage, handing the actors and dancers their costume change, gathering the shed clothes in her arms. Suddenly, she came to a stop when she noticed one of her companions from the costume department performing up on stage, eyeing her curiously when she recognized her to be wearing a dress very similar to the one Amélie was wearing earlier, minus the wig.

"Who is she?" she asked Claude, one of the youngest stagehands, as she watched the girl spinning the prop of a spinning wheel.

Looking up to see who she was talking about, he replied, feigning disinterest, as his gaze lingered longingly on the ravenette performing on stage in Amélie's stead.

"Valerie," he uttered quietly, quickly averting his gaze when said girl's eyes momentarily flickered his way. "She's… she works in the—"

"Costume department," Gracelyn cut him off, eyeing him, amused. "I know, we work together." She motioned to the costumes she held in her arms. "I meant who is she playing; I didn't know she performed too."

"Oh," he mumbled, face flushing red. "She— erm— stand-in only…" She raised a brow, waiting for her answer. "Marguerite. The woman Faust desires."

Gracelyn blinked, surprised. "Hmm. I thought that was Amélie's role," she hummed pensively.

The boy snorted, eyes drifting back to the pretty costume girl performing on stage. "Yeah. Amélie doesn't think she needs rehearsal."

That wasn't as surprising as Gracelyn thought it would be.

Curious, she lingered a little, admiring Valerie's performance; the girl was clearly not a singer— her voice was untrained and too soft to deliver the passion behind the pieces, but her overabundance of energy seemed to somewhat compensate for that. Gracelyn was still rather surprised they asked Valerie to do this, even if only for rehearsals; while her energy and surprising ability to carry a tune, her voice wasn't meant for this type of music. It was too throaty, even if subtle, and thick, and didn't seem able to put in the tremolos that went with this genre of arias, her long notes trailing with an almost deadpanning fade.

On top of this, she looked a little awkward and much less in her element with the others up there, and seemed to want nothing more than to finish so she could rush back to her threads and seams she seemed to adore so much. Honestly, if Gracelyn's hadn't known any better, she would've thought the girl was Madame Laurent's assistant, stewarding to replace her one day.

Finally, the long day concluded, and the singers began to depart one by one, Valerie being first to rush off, nearly leaping off the stage and toward her, face flushed and filled with anxiety.

"Lynnie!"

Gracelyn was still having a bit of a hard time getting used to this _very_ new nickname to the rather introvert of a seamstress had come up with as said usually timid girl bounded toward her and nearly tackled her to the ground.

"Whoa there, Val, calm yourself; we're in public— what would people think of us?"

Pink face flushed red at the young musician's teasing words, prompting the ravenette to instantly pull away, covering her face in embarrassment.

"Stop saying things like that!"

Gracelyn giggled behind her hand. She didn't usually tease people she wasn't close too, especially not with lewd insinuations, even if it were done subtly, but something about Valerie's embarrassed reactions made it hard for her to resist doing such. Being able to break away from her timidity felt refreshing, and she would stop at nothing to remain as social. Since her awakening in this era, she almost felt as though she were meant to be born here.

Truly, she loved the eighteen-seventies… even if she didn't have access to a TV anymore… or a phone… or video games… or the internet…

Okay, she definitely misses the nineties.

"Go to Madame Laurent, I think she had something she wanted you to alter."

The embarrassment was quick to fade, but was replaced by an exited blush as the girl's pout curled up into a smile. "All right! I'll see you later!" she exclaimed herself before running off, albeit a little clumsily in the gown she wore.

Gracelyn chuckled softly to herself, shaking her head; _She should've at least removed the costume— Madame Laurent is sure to call her out for being so careless with her "masterpieces_,_" _she thought as she remained behind with her cart to pick up after the others.

"Bye!" said Flora brightly, the other chorus girls and dancers following suite, all giving the kind girl a smile, which she returned genuinely.

By this point the Phantom had seen enough. He walked down from the upstage, where most stagehands usually operated from, going all the way down to the music department. Ever so quietly, he stepped forward in the orchestra pit, and spoke gently so as not to frighten her. The gentleness in his voice and his quietude did not help much, for she yelped, startled by the mere suddenness of his presence. She stepped back, a bit scared, not knowing what else to do.

"Please don't be afraid," he said softly. "I'm a friend, as well as… an admirer."

Understandably wanting to see what was up with the disembodied voice, she began to move downstage, but the nervous Phantom quickly exclaimed rather fearfully, startling her anew with the sudden loudness of his voice.

"No, please, I would appreciate it greatly if you were to stay exactly where you are!"

She stilled where she stood.

"Mademoiselle, last night I heard you singing." Her eyes widened upon hearing this, her rosy cheeks darkening. "I know, y-you thought you were alone, but you were not…You have the most astonishing voice!" There was a twinge of awe in his tone. "It is like an angel, exquisite in tone and shape. In fact, in almost every single detail, except… but forgive me— it is obviously untrained."

Gracelyn found she wasn't as offended as she would have been had anyone else told her this. This man wasn't wrong, though; although she had been a part of her school choir, she had never been truly taught how to sing, she simply always could. And her teacher had not sought to refine her voice but merely further explore her raw talent; the most she'd been taught was how to read vocal partitions, remain on key and vary if ever she swayed, and how to harmonize. Any other music teacher she'd had was merely for lessons as a musician rather than a singer, henceforth why she was rather knowledgeable in a rather wide range of instruments.

"Now, without training, your voice, beautiful though it is, will never attain the heights for which I know it is destined." He paused for a moment, seemingly thinking through his next words. "Now, if you will allow me, I can help you. I am a musician… of sorts…"

She reacted with hope and again started towards him.

"No, please!" he said quickly, halting her in her step. "There is a condition, and this condition is inviolable. I have never taken on any students— for until last night—" He decided not to reveal having heard her before the previous night. "— I never wanted to. And if others should hear that I am giving lessons, well, they will want them too. Therefore, I must insist that if you allow me to be your guide— and I sincerely hope that you will— I must insist that I remain anonymous."

Despite the inexplicable hope filling her as she _listened_ to his voice, she was visibly hesitant at his unexpected proposal. Seeing this, he quickly reassured her.

"Please, there is no need for an answer now," he told her. "I will find you. Good night…"

The girl clutched at the reddish-orange skirt of her dress and rushed forward to get a glimpse of him as he departed, but he had already vanished by the time she reached the pit.

Sadly glancing down at the ground as she absentmindedly fiddled with her skirt, her foot stuffed in a beige flat shoe stomped against the wooden ground in defeat before she spun on her heel and went back to work before retiring for the night.

** **Thursday, September 1, 1870** **

One more day and it would've been an entire three weeks since he had last heard her sing and since he had proposed to teach her. Perhaps it wasn't a good idea after all. To take stressful matters even further, he found her father had caught him numerous of times watching Gracelyn from the shadows. To the Phantom's surprise, the man was not surprised by this, nor was he even mad.

There was an understandable edge of seriousness in his face and tone when he confronted him one day, after rehearsals, about this.

"I understand the pull you feel toward Belle."

Monsieur Monteverdi had smiled slightly to himself as he used the nickname the whole of Paris who knew his daughter had come to call her by. It suited her, and after having learned the nickname as well, the Phantom agreed wholeheartedly.

"I believe it to be a blessing and a curse from God…" the girl's father continued softly, his Spanish accent decorating his ever word. "To have so many people love her and willing to protect her… and yet, so many obsess over her and do not care what harm they put her through as long as they have her. I will not ask you to stay away from her, for I know it to be impossible for anyone."

The Phantom had watched him intently, noticing how tired the man looked as he spoke of his wishes to keep his daughter safe.

"She may look headstrong at times, but she is still very young and naive, and I do believe it is partly my own fault for trying hard to shield her from the world as she grew up," Monsieur Monteverdi admitted. "She now even believes there is such thing as an Angel of Music. I will not deny my own belief in it, for this tale has followed our family for generations, and though we've never had proof till now whether it exists or not, my belief has never dissipated. And hers is now as big as mine, for she prays at night, not only to her mother and God, but also this one Angel in particular."

The loving father looked the Phantom straight in the eyes. "I won't ask you to stay away from her," he repeated. "All I ask is that you do not hurt her. In any way."

The Phantom did not have to think over the man's request, for he knew he could never live with himself if he ever even thought of harming Grace.

"I would never even dream of it, Monsieur Monteverdi."

He had gotten a smile in return, something the Phantom was not used to. "Good. And call me Francis."

The Phantom had been, yet again, taken by surprise; he had ever only been on a first-name basis with two people, and one of them had left Paris, so there was nothing to get from there. Antoinette was another, but she did not know his name, for he never gave it to her, despite her having saved him all those years ago from the gypsies.

"Erik," he suddenly blurted out, immediately cursing himself for giving himself away.

Francis' smile only brightened at this. "It is a pleasure to finally meet you, Erik. I bid you good night now, for I must have my rest."

Then, for the second time since the Monteverdi stepped into his Opera House, he had found himself feeling puzzled as he watched Francis walk away, whistling softly to himself.

This encounter had only been the previous night, and morning come on the present day, he found himself getting more impatient as he waited to see if he would finally get his answer.

Meanwhile, being the early riser she was, Gracelyn awoke extra early that day to return her the twentieth book she'd read since the day after she found the town's bookshop. She discovered she was Monsieur Robert's first and only regular customer as she went there every day since she had her first glance of the shop to borrow and return a new book. The book she was returning this time was a book from the famous Shakespeare, named The Two Gentlemen of Verona.

When she stepped out of the Opera House, her dark blue gown fanning down just an inch above her ankles which were hidden inside a pair of brown boots, she pushed a strand of her outgrown fringe away from her face, shrugging her loose braid over her shoulder so it fell down her back as she smiled at the city before her, which was soon to awaken and begin the day.

She had become so familiar with the city that still resembled a small village, that she all but left her life in the future far behind her. This new life was a little dull, almost the same every day, but the chance of an adventure was greater than it was in her original time.

"_Little town, it's a quiet village,_" she sang softly as she began her path away from the _Populaire_. "_Every day like the one before. Little town, full of little people, waking up to say__…_"

She knew this song had yet to exist, but given her now current and seemingly permanent lifestyle, it was wholly applicable. What she didn't expect was the townspeople to follow along, all shouting out their greetings to her as they opened their windows and doors, ready to start their business for the day, just like life in a musical. Then again, her life did become a musical, so it shouldn't have come out as a surprise to her.

"_There goes the baker with his tray, like always; the same ol' bread and rolls to sell._" A fond smile curled onto her lips as she waved at the people she walked by. "_Every morning just the same, since the morning that we came to this ol' provincial town._"

"Bonjour, Belle!" the baker called out to her.

She couldn't help but smile brightly at him as she reached him; he was the one to give her the nickname Belle, and despite her modesty when it came to her beauty, she didn't mind it at all. She felt a little embarrassed and shy every now and then as almost the whole town had begun calling her so as well.

"Bonjour, Monsieur Jacques." Noticing the suddenly troubled look on his face, she asked, "Have you lost something again?"

"Well, I believe I have. Problem is, I can't remember what," he admitted, earning a small laugh from the girl. "Oh well, I'm sure it'll come to me. So, where are you off to, today?"

"To the bookshop," she told him, showing her his book as she handed him the large usual basket in which he put the usual pastries she purchased. "I just finished this rather fascinating story. It's about two lovers in fair Verona."

"Sounds boring," he replied with a small, playful grin on his face. She rolled her eyes at him as she paid him thirty-five francs. "Your pastries will be ready when you come back 'round, Belle."

She gave him another smile and a kiss on the cheek, waving a greeting at Marie, his wife. "Thank you. See you in a bit!"

"**_Look there she goes, that girl is strange, no question._**"

She paid no mind to the townspeople that began to sing behind her as she passed them, only smiling and waving at those kindly greeting her, before gazing off in wonder, thinking what new book she should borrow when she gets to the bookshop.

"**Dazed and distracted, can't you tell?**"

"**_Never part of any crowd._** **_'Cause her head's up on some cloud._** **_No denying she's a funny girl that Belle._**"

"Bonjour!" the carpenter greeted.

She smiled in return. "Bonjour! _How is your family?_"

Behind her, the butcher greeted Claudette, one of his regular customers. "Bonjour!"

The beautiful woman smiled warmly at him. "Good day! How is your wife?" she asked, smiling at the man suddenly quivering under his rather manly-looking wife's glare.

"I need six eggs!"

"That's too expensive!"

As much as Gracelyn liked this new life, she wanted something more than just what she had. "_There must be more than this provincial life!_" she sang aloud, glancing dreamily up at the sky.

"Ah, if it isn't the only bookworm in town!"

Gracelyn smiled kindly at the old man. "Good morning, Père Robert. I've come to return the book I borrowed."

"Finished already?" The bookshop owner was no longer surprised at this, however, for she had come to borrow and return a book every single day for the past three weeks.

Gracelyn's rosy cheeks darkened slightly as she timidly gave her now usual reply, "I couldn't put it down."

Monsieur Robert gave her a kind smile. "So, where did you run off to this time?" he asked her, referring to the book in her hand.

"Two cities in Northern Italy." She sighed dreamily. "I didn't want to come back." She looked down at him, for she had now grown a few inches in her time in Paris. There was a childish glint in her dark eyes as she smiled at the man, hopeful. "Have you got any new places to go?"

"I guess we're both lucky you haven't gone everywhere just yet. What do you say about going somewhere… magical?"

Gracelyn's smile only brightened upon receiving one of her old favorite fairy tales; she hadn't read it in so long. "Your library makes our small corner of the world feel big," she remarked.

Chuckling softly at the teenager as he took the francs she held out to him, he told her, "_Bon voyage_," which earned him a giggle before she left his shop, seemingly brightening his day, just like she did for others, despite them regarding her as a strange girl for keeping so much to herself.

Some young men standing right outside the bookshop watched her go; they all knew she was young, but there was a reason, after all, that they all called her Belle.

"**Look there she goes, that girl is so peculiar,**" they sang, watching her leave, a dreamy look mirrored from one face to another. "**I wonder if she's feeling well.**"

Everyone would stop their work to watch the girl gracefully avoid colliding against anyone or anything, all while having her nose buried deep within her latest borrowed book.

"**_With a dreamy, far-off look and her nose stuck in a book— what a puzzle to the rest of us is Belle._**"

The girl went to sit by the large fountain a couple yards away from the bakery, settling down beside a few little girls who were waiting on their mothers, so they could head off to school. They smiled upon seeing the older girl, for she always found the time to share some of the stories she read with them.

"_Oh, isn't this amazing?_" She hugged the book to her chest, sighing dreamily, merely smiling when she noticed the girls giggling at her. "_It's my favorite part because__…__ you'll see._" She turned to the next page of her book, where there was an image of the prince in the story meeting the protagonist and showed it to the little girls sitting around her. "_Here's where she meets Prince Charming, but she won't discover that it's him 'til chapter three!_"

"Belle!"

Her head snapped up, and when she saw the baker waving her over, she bid the girls farewell before plunging her nose back into her book as she started off towards the bakery once more.

"**Now it's no wonder that they call her Beauty,**" a woman sang as she watched the girl from the hat shop, blindly trying on numerous hats. She liked the girl, but she also envied her for being such a beauty at such a young age. "**Her looks have got no parallel.**"

The shopkeeper then joined her by the window. "**But behind that fair facade,** **I'm afraid she's rather odd. Very different from the rest of us.**"

"**_Yes, different from the rest of us is Belle!_**" everyone else in town wholeheartedly agreed.

As Gracelyn went to pick up her order of pastries, a new pair of eyes settled upon her. It was those of Armand Corin, former gendarme from the naval army. He had served since he had come of age and found that those nine years were more than enough. Now retired from combat, he focused his firearm skills on hunting, and sold his own fur and decorative object he created from any animal he hunted, selling some of the meat to the butcher as well. He was well paid for what he did, and he was loved as much as loathed… and that was a lot.

He was a man very easy on the eyes, tall and dark, and very muscular; almost all the single maidens were head over heels for him. But for the past three weeks, he had only wanted one. Unfortunately for him, although she did not know him well and had only met him briefly when she bumped into him on her second day in Paris, and a few times over the past few weeks, she didn't like him at all. From what she had gathered, he was a self-centered man, far older than herself, whom had taken an interest in her as many others had. He, being the self-centered man he was, did not see himself as such, and so he could not see that she saw him as so.

Behind him, his loyal… sidekick, Louis Babineaux, youthfully handsome and aged of seventeen, stumbled and tripped numerous times as he scrambled about to not lose sight of Corin, his arms loaded down with the spoils of his hunt, such as antlers, pelts, birds. Corin simply walked ahead with an arrogant stride, gun slung over his shoulder, everything about him screaming he was a rude, self-centered bully, with a feral look in his eye as if the whole world was his prey.

"Look at her, Louis— my future wife," he said proudly.

Louis cringed; the girl was, indeed, very beautiful. He _could_ recognize _that_, but… well, she was _just_ a _girl_. Younger than himself even, from what he had gathered so far; he found the thought of his idol, who was much older than himself and the girl, liking her in any romantic way rather disturbing.

"Armand… you do know she's just a kid… right?"

"Louis, you did hear when I said "future", right?" Corin retorted. Louis' face flushed slightly at this, feeling suddenly embarrassed, but Corin paid him no mind as he continued to gaze after the angelic-looking girl. "Belle is the most beautiful girl in town. That makes her the best."

Louis had to try and sway Corin's idea from wanting to marry the girl. She was just a kid; he wouldn't wish anyone to lose their innocence so suddenly, especially not this way.

"But she's so… well-read!" he said quickly, realizing his task would be harder than he thought as he had no idea what he could say to succeed, and his excuses were already non-sensible. "And you're so… athletically inclined."

"Yes… but ever since my last tour, I've felt like I've been missing something. And she's the only girl that gives me that sense of…"

"Mmm… _je ne sais quoi_?"

"… I don't know what you mean by that," Corin retorted. "**Right from the moment when I met her, saw her, I said, ****"****she's gorgeous****" ****and I fell! Here in town, there's only she, who is beautiful as me. So, I'm making plans to woo and marry Belle.**"

"You do know that's not her actual name, right?" Louis tried.

"She's still very _belle_, and I _will_ marry her," was Corin's answer as he began to stalk his way over to the retreating girl.

"But she's just a kid!" Louis cried out helplessly.

Corin quickly crossed to the other side of the square where Gracelyn was soon to pass by any minute. Louis gathered the spoils and stumbled to catch up to his mentor. Corin strode past a group of twittering girls. He flashed them his "handsome look" as he passed, and they swooned. Intending to the same, Louis tried to copy his mentor's look, but the girls merely ignored him as they began to sing, gazing dreamily after Corin.

"**_Look there he goes! Isn't he dreamy? Monsieur Corin— oh, he's so cute! Be still my heart! I'm hardly breathing! He's such a tall, dark, strong and handsome brute!_**"

While the silly girls continued to sing, Corin positioned himself in the spot she'd pass. He motioned for Louis to hurry up. Louis arrived and dumped the booty just in time for him to put one foot up, hand on his hip in victorious hunter stance. Gracelyn crossed the street and briefly glanced Corin's way… he puffed his chest out, clearly attempting to show off his muscularity, but she merely continued on without a second look. Corin frowned, thinking for a minute, then grabbed a pair of antlers from the pile and took off after her. Gracelyn backtracked through the marketplace… still without looking up from her book, large basket swinging about from where it hung in the crook of her arm.

Corin trailed her, Louis right at his heels.

Gracelyn quickened her pace, wanting nothing more than to reach the Opera House already, but the streets were now so full of people, it was hard to get through, though she knew if she glanced up from her book once more, the man who'd been chasing her for the past few weeks would no doubt attempt, once again, to catch her attention.

Greetings continued to be thrown here and there, when she suddenly heard his booming voice through the crowd. She instantly quickened her pace a bit more when she realized he was trying to catch up to her, though she found herself nearly tripping when she heard him practically scream,

"**Just watch, I'm going to make Belle my wife!**"

At this point, she snapped her book close and began to run as fast as she could through the crowded marketplace.

"**_Look there she goes. That girl is strange, but special; a most peculiar mademoiselle! It's a pity and a sin, she doesn't quite fit in. 'Cause she really is a funny girl— a beauty, but a funny girl— she really is a funny girl that Belle!_**"

Corin called out to Louis to hurry up as he began to run. Gracelyn was only a few yards away when suddenly, Corin, having picked up the pace of his cocky stride appeared before her and leaned over her shoulder.

"Hello… _Belle_," he greeted her in his most suave voice.

She glanced up briefly at him before opening her book anew as she kept on walking; she knew it was impolite, but at this point, she did not care. She just wanted him to leave her alone. He frowned at her non-existent response and rushed to follow her.

"What's that you're reading?" He reached over from behind and— very rudely, mind you— snatched the book from her grasp. Gracelyn sighed in exasperation and turned around. "Ah, yes. I read this one… couldn't put it down… terrible tragedy… wept real tears."

Gracelyn cracked a small smile at his words, in spite of herself. "Sure you read it."

Louis finally caught up, huffing and puffing, as Corin tossed the book over his shoulder. It bunked Louis on the head and fell to the ground. Gracelyn made a move to ask Louis if he was alright, and also to retrieve her book, but Corin reached around, grabbed a pair of antlers from Louis' pile and gave it to the girl.

"Belle, I brought you a present."

Gracelyn bit her lip, fighting back a grimace. "Antlers! How… erm… thoughtful! Thank you, but I… uh, I couldn't."

"Aw, sure you could!"

Gracelyn threw a desperate glance ahead at the Opera House and replied rather distractedly as she caught sight of the dark figure watching her from a shadowy side of the building; she had a feeling of who it might be. "It's really very kind of you, Monsieur, but…"

She quickly racked through her mind for an excuse.

"… we've no place to put it!" she finished lamely, feeling suddenly disappointed when the dark figure was no longer in sight. She gave the pompous man his antlers back, picked up the book from the ground, handed Louis a pastry as an apology from the hit on his head, then went off to the _Populaire_ again, calling over her shoulder a half-hearted, "Thank you anyway!"

Corin stared after her with wide eyes, seemingly dumbfounded. "But… Belle!"

Louis sighed. "A big turn-off is chasing a girl whose name you don't even know."

Corin thought this over briefly. "No one does."

"Sure, they do. They just choose to call her Belle because of her beauty and good personality," said Louis before stuffing his face with the pastry the girl gave him, letting out another sigh, this time in content.

Corin gave the boy a glare full of suspicion. "Well, you seem to know an awful lot about her for a boy who claims to have no interest in her."

The boy's face flushed under his harsh gaze. "I read the newspaper," he said.

"What does that got to do with anything?"

"Her name is Gracelyn _Monteverdi_; comes from a long line of famous musicians and composers, all the way back to three centuries ago, _directly _descended from the very first Romanova _royalty_ and the recent Spanish-Italian regency. Her father is the new pianist at the Opera House in the seventh arrondissement."

"… oh."

"Yup."

Meanwhile, Gracelyn stopped near the entrance of the Opera House when she found a red rose on the ground. She quite enjoyed Esmeraldas, for they had been her mother's favorite to the point where she was given the name as her middle name, but she simply loved roses.

Picking up the seemingly forgotten flower from the ground, she brought it to her nose, smiling softly as she inhaled its beautiful scent before she pinned it to the lace apron of her dress. Again, she was completely unaware of the eyes watching her from the shadows of the Opera House as she then went inside, beginning her day as she had for the past three weeks.

Giving out pastries to everyone, making sure Christine and Meg behaved and stayed out of trouble, putting new costumes on display for the actors, dancers and singers, gathering the old ones, making necessary adjustments here and there, helping out in the makeup department… reading her book during her breaks and free time. She managed to finish her book by the time her work was done, so she asked Pierre, who lived outside the Opera House with his family, to take it back to the bookshop for her, before she went about to put Christine to bed, so she could finish her work for the day, gathering all shed costumes and putting them in her cart before sweeping around the floors.

When she was finished, she all but ran back to her room where she let out a relieved sigh as she freed herself from her dress and corset. Her boots were next to be shed, being replaced by a pair of sky-blue flat shoes that matched the blue ribbons on her ivory nightgown. Loosening her hair out of her braid, letting it fall past her shoulders to her mid-back, she wrapped a shawl around her shoulders, before lighting a candle, then, after making sure Christine was deep in her slumber, she went off to the set of stairs, camouflaged behind the far-off wall at the other end of the room and began to make her way up the staircase.

As she reached the top of the stairs, she pushed the door open and quietly walked onto the main stage of the Opera House. Reverently, she gazed out into the arcade of seats, again, unaware of the pair of wide eyes staring down at her from the fifth box in the theater.

Her eyes became timid as she began to sing. "_Angel or Phantom, if you listen, give me a sign of any sort._" She paused for a moment, taking a shaky breath after she blew out her candle before placing it on the ground, tightening her shawl around her. "_Angel or Phantom, if you hear me, come forth and let me know._"

Gradually, she began to make her way to the center of the stage, completely unaware that her father was not only watching her from where he stood in the right wing of the stage, but was also keeping an eye on the Phantom, who sat in his usual designated Box.

"_I've been quite hesitant for days, uncertain for most of my life._" Her words were soft and sincere, yet loud and clear; the Phantom leaned forward in his seat, his eyes focused on nothing but the angel singing on the stage. "_You asked me a simple question, yet I could not decide!_"

It was then that the Phantom realized she was calling for him. His mind wasn't playing tricks, nor was he wishful thinking— she really was singing for him, calling for him to come forth; she's giving him her answer.

"_Angel or Phantom, here, I'm singing__…__ calling you from the heavens. Angel, my friend and secret guardian— enter at last, Master._"

For a moment, he could only stare, and she, in turn, stared at the empty spot in the orchestra pit, where she was sure he had stood all those weeks ago when he proposed that he teach her. She waited, for what, she was not even sure anymore.

"_For as long as I've been alive,_ _I've gone through life undecided,_" she began to sing, more to herself than to the Phantom.

Finally, she looked up, her eyes zeroing on Box Five. It was him; he was there, staring at her with striking, intense eyes, his face hidden behind an oak-colored mask. It didn't occur to the Phantom that she was now looking straight at him, for his mind had gone blank the moment their eyes met. Then, when he finally realized it, he found that he could not move, for he was afraid that now that she could see him, she would change her mind and walk away, despite the fact that she was not seeing his real face.

Instead of turning her back to him as he had expected, she twisted her body, so she was fully facing his way as she began to sing again. Her voice had become impossibly sweeter, pouring from her mouth like honey from a jar onto burnt toast, soothing away the bitter taste.

"_Now that I have cleared my mind I__…_"

Again, she became silent for a long, agonizing minute before taking a step his way.

"_…__ wish for your guidance._" Her dark eyes suddenly lit up as a bright, innocent smile curled its way onto her pink, plump lips. "_Angel of Music! Guide and Guardian! Grant to me your knowledge!_"

Angel… of… Music? Did she truly believe him to be so? Was this the naivety her father had spoken of? The Phantom knew not what to do anymore.

"_Angel of Music! Hide no longer!_"

No. She might've been naive and innocent, but she knew _exactly_ who he was. That knowing glint in her eyes gave that much away. And yet… she still called him what he thought her to be and asked for him.

She raised her arms forth, motioning at him to join her, paying no mind to the shawl that slipped from her shoulders and fell to the ground as her eyes remained solely upon him. "_Come to me, strange angel._"

Yes, she somehow definitely knew who he was. And still, she asked for him. She accepted him.

He stood from his seat, his cape black as night bellowing behind him as he met her dark eyes once more. _Those dark, almond-shaped eyes conveying so many emotions, and yet seemingly hiding secrets of the world underneath those thick, dark lashes of hers__…_

He opened the pillar in his Box, and went into the hidden passage behind it, pacing down a short flight of stairs that lead him into the orchestra pit. The smile was gone from her face, though, upon seeing him appear there below, her eyes lit up even more. The Phantom was about to step forth but hesitated when he finally noticed the girl's father in the right backstage wing. The hesitation, however, left as soon as it came when Francis gave the man a look that clearly meant he had his permission as long as he took care of her.

He waited for a moment, gazing back into the girl's eyes, watching her as she reached down for her shawl, her eyes never leaving his as she wrapped it around herself again. Once Francis was gone, the Phantom finally stepped out of the shadows and placed a foot on the first step of the small staircase that led up to the stage.

"**I am your Angel of Music.**"

His voice was that of a baritone, and though it came out ever so softly, it was seemingly loud and raw with emotion. Gracelyn suddenly felt her breathing begin to slow and her heartbeat accelerate; he had only sung a few words, but, by God! His voice was so breathtakingly beautiful and held a certain hypnotic edge to it, which was what pushed her to gradually make her way over to him without even realizing it.

Realizing what he had just done, the Phantom's eyes widened in horror; he had just hypnotized her. It wasn't intentional, for sometimes he could not help the magic he'd spent his life practicing amongst other things, such as his music.

He held his hand out and tried again.

"**Come to me, Angel of Music****…**"

This time, his sung words were nothing but a whisper. She was seemingly out of his hypnotic spell, but it seemed her decision was truly genuine, for she continued forth and, without a second thought, placed her hand in his own. He relished the feeling of her soft, small hand against his own calloused one. They stared at one another for a long moment, just standing there on the small wooden staircase, one small, olive-skinned hand being held ever so delicately by a bigger, paler one.

For the first time, he could see every little detail he'd been longing to see in her eyes. Her eyes, he noticed, were not as dark as he had initially believed them to be. Instead of being of a dark chocolate color, they were a rather light shade of an earthly greenish-brown flecked with emerald specks that somehow seemed to glow as they stared into his own.

She, too, studied his eyes, for she had been longing to do so ever since she realized that he was the one looking after her during her hours of work, keeping away the many stagehands that tended to act naughty every time she was around, trying to get intimate with her. His eyes, she discovered, were as deep a shade of blue as the calm waters of the ocean, mixed with an earthly green hue of a tropical island, and a shade of gray one would find in the sky just after a rainy morning has come to an end.

Her gaze remained as intense upon him as his did upon her, her face showing no speck of emotion displayed in her eyes. Then, she smiled at him, ever so brightly, her lips parting, revealing two perfectly straight rows of pearly white teeth. And then, she sang once more, her voice softer and sweeter than before.

"_Guide me, my Angel of Music._"

* * *

** **Footnotes** **

** **Introduced Characters** **

**Meg Giry** isMadame Giry's daughter and Christine's friend.

**Madame Laurent **(mentioned only) is the Head Seamstress of the Opera House.

**Pierre Lémieux** is one of the main actors/performers at the Opera House.

**Jean-Louis Acquard** the play director at the Opera House.

**Edgar Reyer** is the music conductor at the Opera House.

**Claude Meunier** is one of the youngest stagehands at the Opera House.

**Valerie Ariztia** is one of the few seamstresses in employ and Prima Donna's rehearsal-understudy at the Opera House.

**Monsieur Jacques** is the owner of largest bakery, closest to the Opera House; Gracelyn passes by almost daily to purchase bundles of his delicious pastries.

**Père Robert** is the owner of the only bookshop in town; Gracelyn visits almost daily to loan a book from his small collection.

**Armand Corin** is former gendarme of the naval army, turned hunter, and is, currently, utterly obsessed with Gracelyn.

**Louis Babineaux** is Corin's apprentice of sorts, a delivery-man and, later, friend of Gracelyn.

** **Translations** **

**Belle**: Beautiful (in French)

**"[...] je ne sais quoi?"** : "[...] I don't know what?" (in French)

**Arrondissement**: Borough/District/"Quartier"


	6. Chapter Four

**Chapter Four**

**Monday, October 3, 1870**

It was an odd feeling, having more people know him when he had spent his life trapped in the beginning, then isolated for the rest of it.

During the next month, Francis found himself spending a rather large amount of time with the man who was as awed with his daughter as the rest of the world seemed to be; when he wasn't hanging out with the Swedish man who could easily pass for his brother-in-law's doppelganger, or practicing with the band or even spending time with his daughter, he was in the darkest parts of the right backstage wing, talking with the Phantom— Erik.

The older Monteverdi out of time soon found himself discovering that the feared-by-all Phantom of the Opera was actually rather shy, sardonic, and deeply insecure with every aspect of his being down to his clothing. Francis already knew of the young man's ruling over the underground kingdom of the Opera House, but he found that even though he seemed considerably invincible as he was regularly portrayed in the books in his time, always until the end where he would either die or disappear, Erik actually had no idea how to cope with the world above it.

Erik, although he quite admittedly enjoyed the company of the older Monteverdi, always seemingly tried to find a way to escape him, for their conversations always turned a little too heartfelt for him to handle. The only humorous thing they ever spoke about was the Phantom's constant attempts to drive away the insensitive new managers.

The only one of lower status staff to have heard what he actually wrote in his letters to Choleti was, surprisingly, Gracelyn, for the person she was forced to prioritize above all other performers was Amélie, and wherever the woman was, so was her husband. She would silently snicker to herself as Choleti would read the letters in a hysterically furious manner. Her amusement turned into bemusement, however, when she found the man had involved law enforcement.

"What's _Inpecteur Ledoux_ doing here?" Valerie had asked one day as the two of them scurried the chorus girls towards the auditorium after their lunch break.

"Apparently Choleti's being paranoid over this whole Phantom story," Gracelyn had replied vaguely.

Another chorus girl rolled her eyes upon hearing this. "Well, that might just be in regards to the new manager who will be joining the company."

Gracelyn stopped short of her work, blinking in surprise. "New manager?"

"More of a new patron, more like it," one other corrected.

Valerie nodded in agreement. "Oh, yes, a Monsieur Kirke from England. He's said to be an architect of sorts, very invested in ancient creations. As the Populaire is rather… _antique_, he has chosen to invest in this establishment, but we must also look out for his wife; if she is not pleased with either of the three performances we stage before her, he will retract his investment."

Another of the girls gasped upon hearing this. "That would be horrible."

Gracelyn frowned at this; what would be so horrible about it? They would still have the De Chagny for patrons, along with that other rich family whose name she could not seem to recall.

"It wouldn't be _such_ a bad thing, would it?" she wondered.

"The Kirkes are the richest of these three families, perhaps even richer than the De Chagny and the Hardy family combined!"

"Without them, we might not get the renovations needed, or newer material and equipment for our performances."

Gracelyn hummed softly, beginning to agree with them. "We could do with some new things," she mumbled quietly as, one by one, she and Valerie began to hand out to each ballerina their dancing shoes.

When they had all passed through the doors, Valerie rushing back to the costume department, Gracelyn began to push her cart inside, but slowed her pace as she heard Choleti discussing with the police inspector.

"Listen to this!" Choleti cried out angrily. "_"I greatly approve of the new additions in the orchestra. On another note,_ _Norma is a fine opera and I approve of its selection as well. What I do not approve of is your wife being in it."_" Choleti shot a glare at the seemingly lacking professionalism of the inspector who was trying to hold back his laughter upon hearing the last remark. "Does not approve of my wife being in it! This is the most important moment of her career! And the Phantom of the Opera does not approve?!"

Clearing his throat, Ledoux tried to reason with him. "Monsieur, it is only a note."

"From a ghost! Since when do ghosts write? And this has been going on all month," the manager complained. "Insults and demands. Listen to this one." He pulled another letter out from the bunch in his hands and read it aloud. "_"I expect Box Five held for my exclusive use at all performances. OG."_"

"I was told the previous manager always gave him Box Five."

"Well, he's not getting any such favored treatment from me. Not in my Opera House."

Gracelyn rolled her eyes at the man and went on her way.

"I wonder what the new co-patrons will think of all this," Gracelyn mumbled to herself as she walked through the doors twice, the first to enter, and then the second to leave the auditorium with an armload of dresses. "Hopefully, they'll be sensible enough to see that the oh, so _talented_ Amélie is not all that so she believes…"

As she walked down the halls, heading for Madame Laurent's working quarters, she was caught up by Jean-Claude, who ran over to her, panting slightly, for he was not used to running.

"Gracelyn, I found a nice family you can stay with, not far from here. It won't cost you anything."

She gave him a warm smile, never faltering in her step. "Thank you, Jean-Claude, but I'm very happy where I am! I am with my father, and that is all I need."

"I'm not supposed to let people stay here when there's no room left!" he called after her, but she was long gone by then.

Suddenly, the Phantom's voice boomed through the walls, silencing the doorman from any further word. "Jean-Claude, let her. Please. As a kindness to me…"

The opening night of the opera season was soon to arrive, and patrons swarmed the Palais Garnier in eager anticipation of Norma. Meanwhile, Amélie primped in her dressing room, warbling some truly godawful arpeggios and receiving a steady stream of flower bouquets from her husband. While she drenched herself in powder, her wig suddenly went missing. Upon noticing this, she began to tear the room apart looking for it.

"Where is my wig?" she panicked.

When the wig magically reappeared in its proper location and she saw it there, sitting flawlessly on its shelf, she sighed in relief, donning the hairpiece before running to the stage to finish preparations for her entrance.

A loud trumpet fanfare sounded to cue the arrival of Norma, and so Amélie stepped out onto the stage. Instead of smiling kindly as she should have, though, her face was pinched and panicked, and when she started to sing, her voice was even more shrill than usual and the lyrics she sang were barely discernible through her agony. Through her pain, Amélie did not realize she had grabbed a prop of a rather goofy-looking horn instead of the small sickle knife she was supposed to carry, but with her mind solely focused on her pain, she started using the prop she held to rake at her hair.

Gracelyn and many of her other co-workers that remained behind the curtains watched, some amused and others in horror, as the Prima Donna clawed at her hair in evident distress, trying to scratch through the wig with less and less subtlety until, finally, she yanked off the hairpiece completely. Gracelyn was struck not knowing whether she should feel bad for the woman or laugh at the hilarity of what had just happened to the rather loathed woman. Meanwhile, the audience howled with laughter, while Amélie stared back at them in humiliated rage.

Her furious husband then quickly brought the show to an early closure before ringing the police, fearing foul play after a few staff members discovered the wig man locked in a coatroom. And while the managers waited for the police to arrive, Erik confirmed their suspicions by taunting them from the rafters.

"The sooner you both leave, the sooner your ordeal will be over."

He then left them gaping as he went to fetch Gracelyn for their nightly voice lesson. His raging heart instantly calmed upon seeing the young girl waiting for him, already dressed in a lilac-colored nightgown, a shawl draped over her shoulders as per usual. She was humming a soft lullaby to little Christine who held her hand in her sleep.

"Gracelyn," he said softly.

Gracelyn's head snapped up at the sound of his voice, a smile gracing her face upon seeing by an opening in a wall. "_Maestro_," she replied ever so softly.

Pulling her hand from Christine's, she placed a soft kiss on the little girl's forehead before taking the Phantom's hand, letting him lead her through the tunnels he was so familiar with. There was a comfortable silence between them, but Gracelyn decided it wouldn't hurt to make conversation, so she began a small one as they continued en route from her room.

"Did you see what happened to Amélie tonight?" she asked, hiding her suspicion that he must've been behind the whole mess.

"No."

She paid no mind to his flat tone, for she was lost in her inevitable sympathy for the humiliated woman. "Her grand début was a disaster!"

"Oh! That's too bad," the Phantom exclaimed himself rather saucily.

Erik lead the girl into the music room they had adopted for their lessons. While the managers and the inspector squabbled about in the managers' office, Gracelyn's voice wafted through the empty lobby. Erik watched her attentively, his gaze never leaving her as she sang, eyes closed, singing the song she was told to sing, with a perfect control over her emotions.

When her piece came to an end, her eyes snapped open, slightly narrowing as she let out an irritated puff of air. "I'm not comfortable with the upper register yet…"

The Phantom simply encouraged her, being as sweet as he always was to her. "But you will be! You're doing so well," he told her. He held out a hand to her and smiled when she placed her own in it, pulling her closer as he gave her a comforting look. "You're already a finer singer than most of the company."

She laughed softly, ducking her head slightly as a faint blush darkened her rosy cheeks. "That's not possible."

"But it is. You have a gift. Your voice is the voice of angels. And very soon, sooner than I ever thought, you'll be singing not just up here, but on the stage as well."

Gracelyn smiled timidly and said, "Oh, it's like a dream."

"Except that it's real." Gracelyn looked at him curiously as she noticed his gaze had become somewhat sad as it fell to the ground. "Sometimes dreams can be real." He paused for a moment as his lifted his eyes to meet hers once again. "The gods smiled when they imagined you, Gracelyn Monteverdi. You are music itself."

The fifteen-year-old suddenly felt herself become more timid. Trying to revert from the sudden shyness, she turned away from the man and walked over to one of the undraped windows, looking fondly out at the city as it glowed underneath the moonlight. It was a beautiful sight, but sometimes she couldn't help but miss the future. Better yet, her past, when her mother was still alive even.

"I wish my mother were here," she murmured softly.

"Was she a musician?" the Phantom wondered. He knew the Monteverdi came from a long line of famous composers and musicians, yet he was still not quite sure what their relation to the latest Daaé was.

"A violinist, like my Uncle Gustave."

Okay, that explained it well; so, the music in her came from both sides of her family.

"She would play her violin, my father his piano, and I would dance around them, singing. It had always been their shared dream to come here and bring our family name back into the light. It was their dream we would perform here as a family… my mother, the greatest female violinist… my father, the first Monteverdi to take the spotlight after… _years_ of our name buried underground. And me… it was their dream that someday I'd sing _here_."

"Your mother has watched over you."

Gracelyn smiled softly. "I like to think so."

"There's no doubt of it."

She was silent again, for a long moment, and the Phantom yearned to hear her voice again, even if she would only speak. Suddenly, she spoke anew, but her words soured his mood.

"Do you know the Comte De Chagny?"

The Phantom glared down at the piano in front of him; he knew all of them and didn't like them at all. "Why?"

"He's the one who told my father and uncle to come here. He's a recent friend of my father's…" she trailed off for a moment, fiddling with the hem of her sleeve which was longer than her actual arm, covering all the way to the palm of her hands. "His eldest son heard me singing once; he told me I should come as well…"

"He's not worthy of you," was the Phantom's immediate reply.

Gracelyn blinked in surprise, uncertain of what he actually meant by that. "Why?" She walked over to him and placed a hand on his shoulder when he turned his face to keep himself from looking at her. "Please?"

Momentarily closing his eyes as he relished the feeling of her gentle touch, his eyes fluttered open and stared ahead. "He comes to the Opera for the wrong reasons." He turned his gaze back to her and said, "He loves the beauty of faces more than the beauty of music."

Gracelyn removed her hand from his shoulder and frowned, averting her eyes. She knew Philippe, and though she had not known him but for a few months, he was her dear friend. Perhaps he was a boy who liked to cruise around women ever since he came of age, but he was sweet and kind whenever he addressed her. He was so caring and brotherly, it was hard to believe what the Phantom was telling her.

"Have I hurt you?" the Phantom asked ever so softly upon realizing he probably had with his rather unkind candor. She shook her head, still not meeting his gaze. "Good. That is something I would never want to do."

Her head finally snapped back his way at those words. Her frown instantly disappeared, and a small smile graced her lips, fondness pouring into her dark eyes. She walked back toward him and sat on the spot of the piano bench left unoccupied, placing a hand on his arm.

"Would you play something for me?" she asked him softly, her other hand absentmindedly fiddling with the tips of her long curls that flowed over her shoulder, the tips resting in a bunch on her lap.

He gave her a small smile. "What would you like me to play?"

She shrugged lightly, reaching forward to caress the instrument's black and white keys. "Anything." She looked back up at him. "Perhaps something you've composed."

He narrowed his eyes at her in a playful manner. "And how do you know I've composed anything?"

She ducked her head timidly, softly playing a chord of notes on the grand piano before them. "A mere guess. Every musician composes music at some point. Sometimes we just don't realize it because we don't write down the scores."

He reached a hand out and brushed it ever so softly over her rosy cheek, adoration filling his eyes as she blushed at his gentle touch. Her cheek was warm against his cold hand which, he noticed, wore no glove; he didn't cover his hands when she was around, he realized.

Perhaps it was the content feeling of the angel's skin against his that made him do so.

She wasn't the most touchy-feely person, but she did not mind giving any form of gentle contact to the people she was closest to. The Phantom, over the course of the past month, had become one of those people, and though he didn't ever do anything wrong to harm her or take advantage of her, for that was not the man he was, he never let the opportunity of simply holding her hand or being touched by her pass by. Her touch was the first caring touch he'd ever felt in his entire life, and he was not about to back away from it.

"I shall play something I've begun to compose for you."

Gracelyn blinked, surprised yet again. "For me?" she whispered.

He smiled softly, almost as timidly as she. "For you," he said. "It's not entirely done, so forgive me for any mishap."

She gave him a smile in return, a tinge of exhaustion shining in her half-lidded eyes. "I don't believe anything you play could ever sound awful, finished or not."

The keyboard was now bare and left alone, waiting to be danced upon by talented fingers. Placing his calloused fingers upon the white and black keys, Gracelyn watched in awe as, once again, his hands gracefully wandered about the instrument's musical buttons, performing the most hypnotic, lulling, and beautiful music she'd ever heard.

Of course, it would be beautiful— this was the Phantom of the Opera. However, she hadn't expected it to be so magnificent, for she had only ever learned of the Phantom through the tales her father told her as a child; she never saw a play or even the filmed adaptations of his story, only admiring her father as he spoke it, loving the Phantom as she grew, for she admired how, despite how evil he was portrayed to be, he was really just overloaded with love he wished to have returned.

She did not know what version of the Phantom was gracing her with his presence. In fact, she never really knew whether his story was, indeed, true or simply fictional. Her father never knew this either, but he never made any effort to find out. Perhaps, like many other stories, his was true, but only written down differently than what really was.

Quite much like the Grand Duchess Anastasia— the youngest Russian Tsarevna from late nineteenth century and early twentieth; she and her family were known to have been real. After all, they had been the rulers of Imperial Russia, and their name in royalty dated back to nearly well over a millennium, when the world was nearly alternate, ruled under an entirely different dynasty of nobility, one of which Gracelyn herself just so happened to have descended from. However, the story of this particular princess was never quite clear, for no one knew if she had truly ever been found or not.

Gracelyn was quickly snapped out of the puzzles and wonders forming in her mind when the Phantom— her Angel of Music began to sing to her.

"**Hearing is believing, music is deceiving… hard as lightning, soft as candlelight;** **dare you trust the music of the night…**"

Their eyes met anew when he sang the next line, and, for some unknown reason, Gracelyn felt something stir within her. Not only did she not know why she was feeling so, but she was also confused as to what that "something" that stirred inside her was.

"**Close your eyes, for your eyes will only tell the truth.** **And the truth isn't what you want to see…**"

Her eyes only grew more wondering as she stared into his own, his striking orbs being the only thing about him other than his dark hair that was visible to her eyes and those of any other.

"**In the dark it is easy to pretend…**"

Her eyes closed for a moment as she seemingly savored the way his voice reached the high note of the last word in a beautiful falsetto. Her eyes opened, and she looked back at him as that last tender note faded, the music continuing as he continued in the same soft tone.

"**That the truth is what it ought to be…**"

She could not begin to imagine what truth he might've been hiding from her apart from his face. His face… she wondered what it actually looked like. She had heard a whole bunch of descriptions her father had read to her, but she could not picture such horrendous looks on a man who possessed, not only the voice of an angel but also the eyes of one.

"**Softly, deftly, music shall caress you.**"

She discovered he was no longer playing the piano but looking at her as he sang to her. And yet the music still played; she found that, as annoying as the music magically accompanying anyone could be, she loved it as well, for moments like these, when her friend and mentor sang to her, she only wanted to hear more.

"**Hear it, feel it secretly possess you.**"

She definitely wanted to hear more.

"**Open up your mind, let your fantasies unwind… in this darkness that you know you cannot fight.**" Ever so gently, as though a mere feather could break her, he took her hand in his, lifting it up to rest it on his chest. "**The darkness of the music of the night.**"

His other hand wandered its way to her face, hovering over her head as his fingers yearned to run through her dark curls. "**Close your eyes, start a journey through a strange new world. Leave all thoughts of the life you knew before!**"

Suddenly, his arms were around her petite frame, pulling her flush against him, his face burying in that wealth of dark long curls, inhaling her sweet, flowery aroma. Gracelyn closed her eyes, relishing the feeling of his arms wrapped securely and yet ever so tenderly around her, as well as his voice singing in her ear, for the memory of it was all she would have left after she let her exhaustion take over.

"**Close your eyes and let music set you free!**"

His voice dropped from a powerful, overwhelming crescendo down to the softest pianissimo whisper.

"**Only then can you belong to me…**"

It was only when the last notes of that line faded that he realized the girl had gone limp in his embrace. He pulled away slightly and chuckled to himself when he noticed she had fallen asleep in his arms. Brushing a rogue curl away from her face, his hand lingered, brushing down her rosy cheek.

"Sometimes I forget you're still a child," he murmured softly. "For you often seem wise and kind beyond your years."

His hand leaving her face, he let his arms slither back around her, one arm holding her to his chest as the other wound behind her knees, and picked her up, beginning to hum as he had seen her do many times when a sleeping Christine would stir in her arms as she just did in his.

He resumed his singing to her, practically purring into her ear as he traveled through his labyrinth of tunnels, with the girl nestled carefully and quite comfortably in his arms.

"**Floating, falling, sweet… intoxication. Touch me, trust me, savor each sensation…**"

He slowed slightly in his pace as he could see the outline of the secret wall that would lead into the storage room she had adopted as her bedroom.

"**Let the dream begin! Let your darker side give in! To the power of the music that I write…**" With his foot, he pushed a switch near the ground, and the wall slid open. "**The power of the music of the night.**"

Quietly, he made his way across her room to her makeshift bed, where little Christine lay sound asleep. The little girl was quite an adorable sight to see, a cute little frown on her face as her body stretched in her sleep to find her companion nowhere near. Carefully, he stepped forward and placed Gracelyn on the bed beside the five-year-old, who instantly relaxed in her slumber upon her arms wounding around the older girl.

Chuckling under his breath, the Phantom, once again, brushed a curl away from his apprentice's face before caressing her rosy cheek.

"**You alone can make my song take flight,**" he sang softly in her ear.

He then pressed a tender kiss on her forehead as he had seen her do to Christine numerous times, and her father to her as well. Slowly, he then began to make his way into the shadows, his eyes never leaving her slumbering figure.

"**Help me make the music of the night…**"

**Thursday, October 27, 1870**

For the next few weeks, things went on rather smoothly for Gracelyn. Every day she awoke very early in the morning to go return and borrow a new book at the bookshop. She would buy pastries from the baker every third or fourth day, always nearly running back to the Opera House in an attempt to avoid Corin, who continued to pursue her.

During the course of the second week of October, on the same numbered day as herself, little Christine grew a year older. Gracelyn was happy to find that despite growing a bit older, little Christine did not change one bit, always being her jolly self, smiling at the world for no reason at all. The teenager had gotten the now six-year-old girl another porcelain doll, which she instantly took with Alice, the doll Gracelyn had gotten her upon their arrival in Paris, to share and play with her best friend, Marguerite Giry, or rather Meg as everyone called the four-year-old.

That day had been filled with pastries of all sorts and sizes as well as a few gifts here and there. It wasn't, however, until two weeks after that celebration that some changes began to occur within Gracelyn, though no one could notice this.

Her changes began when she had found an old book one night while cleaning out her room. The book was large and torn, filled with poorly kept music partitions, nearly falling out of their binding. She had been a little curious and awed as she could read through a few pages that weren't as faded as the rest, but as soon as she'd gotten herself a paper-cut, smearing the cover with a few droplets, she all but abandoned the thing, glaring down at it grudgingly before tossing it aside in a far corner she knew she would never pay mind to.

Indeed, she came to forget about her finding days later, but she would find herself startling awake nearly every night after, the melody of a violin starting to haunt her in her dreams. The melody was strange and dark, beginning rather gently and reflectively, the flowing melody line filled with tasteful embellishments. It would then move from a tonic to a dominant key before returning once again to a tonic theme similar to the beginning.

A crisp, quick, highly decorated bravura following, preceding a brief cantabile slow movement, would be the perfect way to describe the significance of her dream state.

The slow-flowing melody would then go down a seemingly difficult pattern of notes, its pace quickening before dissolving into a repeated modular violin melody over an accompaniment magically joining it, intensifying the whole play upon every new bar. The crescendoing music would then slow into a chromatic theme before a bravura cadenza would begin, bringing a certain thrilling _trill_ that would outline the main theme.

On that night, or rather the midst of morning of the twenty-seventh, she had that dream again. Same as always, she was welcomed by that violin playing in the dark. Through the darkness around her, there was suddenly a very faint light. It wasn't of a welcoming and comforting aura like the one that had transported her into that Victorian era, but more of a seemingly burning fire barely visible at a certain distance. Then, a dark figure would appear— a man clad in black.

Now, if this repetitive dream were any good one, she would merely stand there waiting for him, and he would approach her and turn out to be _her_ Phantom, who would gently grab her hand, lead her to a stage and sing with her.

But this was not him— this was never her Angel of Music.

She did not know who this man was, for she could never find out; he would simply stand there, his body shadowing her almost completely from the only source of light in that darkness, as though trying to keep her trapped in that dark pit of hell with him. He would play his violin, the melody familiar to her, even to her dream-self, and he would keep playing while waiting for her until he managed to lure her in with his dark, entrancing melody.

Though pure and innocent she was, awake or asleep, her young mind was still aware of the bad things grown-ups could do to those who have bloomed only just— those who have physically come of age _only just_, or even not. Even her dream-self would feel the fear she'd feel if she were awake as she would approach him in that darkness; the thought of how easy it would be for this man to force himself on her would terrify her, but her legs would keep pushing her forward— it was as though they had a mind of their own. As though they knew running away would be no use, for he might as well already have _taken_ her; he'd raped her with his music, and perhaps that crime was almost as bad. Either way, this stranger had ridden any chance of earning her genuine trust and destroyed a rare and precious innocence.

He wasn't like Erik— she knew what lay behind her mentor's mask. Though she was still uncertain of what had caused him to be born with it and did not know whether it looked as bad as he believed it looked, she knew. But this man… this man haunting her in her dreams— this man tearing away the purity and innocence in her mind— she found she could never know who he truly is, for every time she managed to tear away the long black neckerchief and large sombrero that hid his identity from her, she would end up scaring herself awake, a scream caught in her throat as the memory of a mutilated face would burn in her mind.

She was like a frightened mouse that morning, avoiding almost any villager as she left the Opera House to begin her usual routine. She was unusually silent as she went about her morning errands, and that piked most people's attention, though no one dared question her; she may not be a liar, but she wouldn't necessarily just blurt out the truth. Once again that morning, Armand Corin decided to approach her as she neared the end of her morning trip.

"Good morning, Belle!"

She suppressed a sigh as she spared the man a mere glance. "_Bonjour, Monsieur_."

"Wonderful book you have there," he said, motioning to the book she held to her chest.

For the first time that morning, she expressed a little more than just dismay; she blinked at him, surprised. "Have you read it?" She was really hoping he wasn't just wasting her time and wouldn't do as he did the last time he had managed to keep her out a little longer.

His smile faded some. "Er… well… not _that_ one, but… you know…" He chuckled slightly, giving her his most charming smile. "Books." Then, he practically shoved a large bouquet of flowers in her face, earning a startled yelp out of her. "Your dinner table," he said, not even truly asking her.

Her eyes narrowed slightly. "Gee, what a great proposal," she grunted slightly, sarcastically. "You know, you remind me of someone… a man named Gaston."

She held back a grimace as she thought of the infamous villain from the famous tale Beauty and the Beast. Then, she paused, her eyes widening, terrified at the possibility of him actually being that man; she was already somehow tangled in the story of the Phantom of the Opera, and people were starting to call her Belle for some reason unknown to her— it was seemingly probable of this man being Gaston. By God! She wished not.

"Wait— your name isn't Gaston, is it?"

"Armand Corin at your service, Mademoiselle." He didn't seem at all bothered that she was just now learning his name as he gave her a rather theatrical bow. "Shall I join you this evening?"

She was relieved, to say the least, by the news, though his latter proposition merely gave her the urge to roll her eyes rather than simply gaze at him incredulously as she was. "Sorry," she said. "Not this evening."

"Busy?" He gave her a tender smiled, which did make her feel a tad bit guilty for being rude to him. Just a tad, though.

She shook her head. "No," was her simple answer before she turned her back to the smitten man and continued on her way back to the Opera House.

"So," said Louis as he approached the man. "Moving on?"

Corin scoffed. "No, Louis. It's the ones who play hard-to-get that are always the sweetest prey."

"Hard-to-get." Louis snorted humorlessly. "Right. Has it ever occurred to you that… I don't know, maybe she's not really playing hard-to-get, but is actually, genuinely not interested in you because she's a _kid_?"

"Playing as she is, is what makes her so appealing," Corin simply went on, completely ignoring Louis' remark. "She hasn't made a fool of herself just to get my attention… what would you call that?"

"Dignity," the boy deadpanned.

Corin grinned broadly as he turned to face the boy. "It's outrageously attractive, isn't it?"

"It's outrageously disturbing," Louis retorted, referring to the fact that a girl was being chased by a man who could easily be her father, age-wise.

The boy then stalked past the man, heading in the same direction the fifteen-year-old had gone, picking up the red rose that had fallen from her basket along the way. He took his sweet time in going after her, smiling at the people around him, his smile dimming slightly, timidly, upon being caught following her, having her, in result, turn on her heels and stare him with narrowed eyes.

Her eyes were strange for someone with olive skin. What was stranger, was that the girl's usually tanned skin was seemingly pale, giving her the appearance of someone who was either not sleeping well, or simply ill. The bags under her eyes didn't really help his guessing.

"Why are you following me?"

The boy's face flushed with sudden shyness as he finally got to glimpse up close at her widely known beauty. "I-I… I'm sorry, I didn't mean to— it's just that— you dropped this!" he finally sputtered out, averting his eyes as he held out the red rose to her.

Her stern, distant eyes softened at his thoughtful gesture and became seemingly brighter as she gently plucked the rose from his hand, murmuring her gratitude. She smiled softly as she brought the flower to her nose and inhaled its sweet aroma.

He watched her, attentively, as a mixture of emotions flashed through her eyes as she gazed down at the rose with a small smile on her face.

"I… if I may, Mademoiselle," he went on, trying his best not to stutter in front of the beautiful girl— _remember, she's just a kid_— his flustered cheeks darkening upon having her dark eyes meet his own. "Why a red rose?"

The girl blinked, not understanding what he was going on about. "What do you mean?"

"Well… I-I know most women love red roses because they represent love, a-and their beauty, and… er… for them, it's… uh… a big deal to receive one from a man."

"Red roses are beautiful flowers that have been adored throughout history for their symbolism, their beauty and their representation of love," she agreed. "People write songs and poems about this specific plant. Some have even held tournaments and parades in its honor. I love how beautiful these roses in particular are, but truly I've come to admire the meaning it has acquired throughout time, or, more so, the meaning I believe it holds."

"And… and that would be?"

Gracelyn looked up at him, the bicolor hue in her eyes becoming more prominent beneath the sunlight shining upon them. There was something in her smile that stirred something in him— was it sadness? Pain? He could not tell, and so got him curious; what could this girl— this _child_ have gone through to feel such feelings?

"It's a flower of choice to give to someone you love. It's a flower that lures, not only love, but also lust… temptation. Though as beautiful as the rose is, I believe it holds a hidden dark side." Her smile faded and her eyes seemingly darkened, becoming sadder and more distant. "If it's not handled carefully in its beauty, it can cause great pain."

For a moment, she stared off into space, her eyes glazing over as her mind slipped from the present— past— she didn't even know what to call it anymore. For a moment, she thought of her parents. Her mind then wandered off to the Daaé and the De Chagny before it was graced with the thought of _her_ Phantom. Suddenly, the faint look of tenderness that had crossed her face was suddenly taken over by a look of pain and fear as the stranger in black from her dreams slipped into her mind, the sound of his violin playing faintly in the back of her head.

Suddenly, remembering who was in her presence, she quickly wiped all revealing emotion from her face, replacing it with a smile that held so much mystery to those it was given to. She looked down at the flower in her hand and subconsciously twirled it in her hand.

"How interesting that nature has designed a flower so beautiful to look at, but so painful to the touch," she mumbled softly, running a finger over a rogue thorn on the flower's stem. "Is this… perhaps the way God is trying to leave a message in creation that… as beautiful… as romantic as love can be, it can contain a thorn to pierce our hearts as well?"

Despite her question being rhetorical, the boy before her could not think of a possible explanation for it, for he could only stare at her in wonder. The townsfolk were right— she was odd. But not in a bad way. She was strange and though she blended in rather well, she seemingly spoke at times in a way that seemed far too advanced for others to understand, even more so than the most educated people in the city. It almost seemed as though she came from another time! But that would be impossible… right?

The boy was snapped out of his stupor when he found the red rose in the girl's hand had been replaced by a yellow one she was holding out to him. Dumbfounded, he grabbed it from her hand, his mouth opening and closing wordlessly as he gaped at her.

Chuckling softly at his expression, she gave him a bright smile as she held out her hand to him. "I'm Gracelyn. Gracelyn Monteverdi. What's your name?"

"L-Louis," he replied softly, taking her hand in his, feeling ever so surprised when she shook it in greeting rather than waited for him to kiss it as many other girls or women would have done. "Louis Babineaux."

"Well, it's nice to have met you, Monsieur Babineaux."

"J-just Louis."

She nodded, pulling her hand away, bringing it down to hold onto her basket with both hands. "_D'accord, mon ami_," she said softly. "_Je dois partir, mais j'espère te revoir à un de ces jours_."

He nodded, smiling slightly. "_Moi aussi_."

Giving him another smile, she waved at him as she began to back away from him, her red rose in her hand once more. "_À la prochaine!_"

"_À la prochaine… mon amie…_" he mumbled.

His grip tightened on the stem of the yellow rose he was holding, his eyes filling with life and fondness he'd never felt for anyone before as he watched her retreating figure.

Meanwhile, Gracelyn felt a lot jollier that morning as she made her way back to the Opera House. For a moment, she got to forget about those horrible nightmares, despite having a momentary flashback to it when she was explaining her opinion on the meaning of the flower she held in her hand. When she walked through the doors of the _Populaire_, she first greeted Jean-Claude, as per usual, giving him his pastry before heading for her room, for she had a feeling little Christine was still asleep.

She wasn't wrong, for, when she went in, the little girl was still in her bundle on their bed.

"Who was that boy?" the voice of her teacher suddenly whispered in her ear, causing her to jump and yelp in surprise.

She spun on her heels, scanning the dark room, only to find that he was nowhere in sight. "_Maestro_?"

"Gracelyn…" There was a warning edge in his tone, but Gracelyn could only smile when she noticed how half-hearted it was; he was merely looking out for her and being his caring self.

"He's just a boy," she said softly as she went to the wardrobe to grab a dress for Christine to wear. "I officially met him today, but I like to think he's a friend who cares about my well-being— his mentor has been chasing me around for weeks, but he's been helping in trying to keep him away."

The Phantom frowned upon hearing this as he entered her room, a tray with only two mugs of hot chocolate in his hands. "Chasing you?"

Gracelyn shrugged. "In a manner of speaking." She then frowned as she thought of that day— all those weeks ago when she borrowed The Sleeping Beauty from Père Robert— and shuddered as she remembered how Corin had actually ran after her. "Or… I guess, to some extent… quite literally," she added, the grimace on her face quite apparent in the dark.

"Why did he give you that rose?" The Phantom was well aware of what a red rose meant, and he was not content knowing a boy gave one to Gracelyn.

"Gave it back to me," she corrected him. "I found a bush of roses while running my morning errands and thought of making a bouquet for my room… to liven it up a bit. I figure it fell out of my basket on my way here, for it was missing from the batch I had plucked. He was merely returning it to me. In exchange, I gave him a yellow one."

"Friendship," the Phantom murmured.

Hearing him clearly, Gracelyn smiled as she nodded. "He looked like he didn't have that many friends, so I thought it would be a nice thing to offer him friendship from my part; I do know what it feels like not to have… many friends."

The Phantom nodded to himself, satisfied with her answer. Grabbing her hand in his, he brought it to his lips and placed a soft kiss on the back of her hand. "I shall see you tonight then, _mon ange_."

The girl's rosy cheeks darkened upon his gesture as she nodded in reply, giving him another one of her genuine smiles. "Till tonight, _Maestro_."

With higher spirits, her day went by smoother than it had been in the past few weeks. She remained as quiet, only smiling at those who smiled at her, and giving short, slightly quipped replies when spoken to, but, other than that, she remained silent.

"You haven't been singing," little Christine noted as she and Meg sat with Gracelyn in the auditorium a little later that day after dinner, she on the latter's right side, and Meg on her left. The little girl frowned to herself, a bit upset at this result. Had she done something bad for Gracelyn to stop singing?

Gracelyn tore her eyes away from the rehearsal going on onstage. "You haven't done anything bad," she said, as though reading Christine's mind.

"Then why? What's wrong?" the little girl pressed. Then, she gasped. "Did Madame Choleti threaten you?!"

Eyes widening, Gracelyn quickly put her hand over the girl's mouth to keep her from shouting. "Quiet down, Christine! And no, she did not threaten me— where would you get such an idea?"

It was no secret that Amélie disliked Gracelyn for the smart-mouth she tended to have around her. Though she acted civil and somewhat kindly to some extent, there was not a day where Amélie failed to give the girl a glare, even when it was without a reason. She just really disliked the fifteen-year-old.

"The ballerinas talk a lot," Meg piped in, ever so innocently. "They say Madame Cole— Chole—" Meg frowned slightly as she was unable to pronounce the name. "Madame Manager—" Gracelyn chuckled at her choice of words. "— doesn't like you, and that she's trying to get you "fired"… I don't see how that's any reason to want to put you on fire…"

Gracelyn let out a soft laugh as the little blonde's logic. "Firing someone doesn't mean putting them on fire, little Meg," she explained. "It means taking away their job."

Meg's eyes widened upon hearing this. "B-but if she takes your job… that means you won't be around anymore, right?!" she panicked.

Gracelyn chuckled and patted the little girl's head. "She can take my job, but that won't stop me from coming to see you," she reassured her, then she turned to smile at Christine. "Or singing you to sleep, which, by the way, you should both be doing right about now."

The girls pouted, almost resembling twins, causing the fifteen-year-old to laugh wholeheartedly.

"How about this, you both can have a little sleepover."

Meg hesitated. "But what about _Maman_?"

Gracelyn gave her a smile. "I already asked her, and she's fine with it, so long as you don't stay up too late."

The girls gave her a bright smile, and each took a hold of one of her hands, letting her lead them to her and Christine's room. After dressing the girls for bed, she went back to the, then, empty auditorium and went about doing her job. When she was done for the day, she went back to her room and chuckled to herself upon seeing the two little girls having a pillow fight. For a moment, she simply watched them, reminiscing the times she would have her own sleepovers with her closest girlfriends.

Quickly changing into her nightgown behind the changing screen, she walked back out and went over to the girls, catching them in her arms to keep them from jumping on the mattress.

"Alright girls! Time for bed." The girls groaned and pouted, trying to make her change her mind, but she was having none of it. "Perhaps when you're older, I'll let you both stay up a little longer," she told them, a teasing smile dancing on her lips.

Christine gave her a playful grimace as she finally settled under the sheets, Meg snuggling beside her.

"Can you sing us a song?" the little brunette asked, sitting up slightly.

Brushing a few curls away from the little girl's face, another smile graced Gracelyn's lips before she softly began to sing a song from one of her favorite childhood movies.

"_Stay awake, don't rest your head. Don't lie down upon your bed._"

Her eyes twinkled slightly upon seeing the awed look on little Meg's face; _that's right_, she thought, _she's never heard me sing before_.

"_While the moon drifts in the skies… stay awake, don't close your eyes._"

She stood from the bedside and began to gently tuck them in as the girls' consciousness began to drift, Gracelyn's soft, soothing voice luring them into their slumber.

"_Though the world is fast asleep… though your pillow's soft and deep._" She grabbed the snuffer from the night-table and began to extinguish all the candles. "_You're not sleepy as you seem… stay awake, don't nod and dream._" She smiled to herself once again when she noticed the girl were fast asleep.

"_Stay awake, don't nod and dream_," she finished softly as she grabbed the last lit candle.

"That was lovely," said the familiar soothing voice of her tutor.

Her smile brightened some as she turned to the secret passage that was opened, revealing dimly his dark form in the light of her candle. "Thank you, _Maestro_," she said softly as she picked the skirts of her pink night gown before making her way over to him.

He instantly grabbed the candle from her hand, then offered her his other arm, which she took hold of without hesitation before the two of them walked into the darkness of the tunnels, unaware of the little brunette watching them curiously.

In their practice room, Gracelyn gazed off into thin air as she sang, clearly distracted, the Phantom noticed, by the way her eyes glazed over as she subtly zoned out, her mouth opening less in those particular moments, in result putting a certain restraint on the notes she vocalized.

"Open your mouth more," he told her softly.

Snapping out of whatever reverie she'd been in, she looked at him, her rosy cheeks darkening slightly from being caught distracted. "I'm sorry."

"You're distracted," the Phantom noted.

"I'm sorry," she repeated.

"You haven't been sleeping well."

"I… I'm sorry," she said once more.

The Phantom removed his hands from the keyboard. "You're apologizing for missing on your sleep?" he asked, slightly amused.

"I'm so—" She cut herself off, blushing slightly out of embarrassment before apologizing once more, rather sheepishly.

The man looked over his apprentice, studying every big to little aspect about her, trying to see what was wrong. As always, though, however much he'd come to know about her, he simply could not read her yet.

"Something's bothering you," he stated as it was all he could deduce. "Something in your mind is depriving you from you sleep."

Gracelyn hesitated for a moment, unsure of what to say. A sudden glint of fear flashed through her eyes as she thought of her dream, and, thankfully, the Phantom was quick to catch it. Gently taking a hold of her hand, he pulled her closer to him, so she sat on the bench beside him.

"Tell me, Gracelyn," he said softly. "What is wrong?"

Again, she hesitated for a moment longer before she whispered, "I… I'm being haunted."

Though he called himself a phantom, he truly did not fully believe in omnipotent beings. However, there was a limit to his disbelief as there was to his belief, for he believed in angels the moment he met her. Keeping his mindset open, he gave her hand a gentle, comforting squeeze, not at all ushering her, but rather slowly encouraging her into elaborating what she meant, giving her his full attention and support.

"Every time I close my eyes… it's like I'm falling… and it never ends," she told him, her voice soft and trembling with fear as her hand squeezed his back a little harder. "I'm falling and…" she trailed off before she softly began to sing the rest. "_I keep falling… through a cold and unending night…_"

Her mind wasn't even acknowledging the magically accompanying music as it usually did. It wandered off, her eyes staring off into thin air once more.

"_Into_ _a world where the daylight dissolves into darkness… darkness…_"

Her hand left his and joined her other arm which wrapped around her torso, grabbing onto her white cloak which she pulled more tightly around her as she stood and absentmindedly took a few steps away from the piano.

"_And a man waits there for me…_"

At those words, the Phantom instantly go to his feet, his body tense and rigid as he waited for her to continue, his insides churning with more than just worry now.

"_Can I ever escape from him?_" Her words began to tremble even more as she slowly etched her way to the undraped window, staring out into the town dimly lit under the moonlight. "_Can I ever escape from that face… so destroyed and deformed, it was hardly a face in the darkness… darkness…_"

"Gracelyn…"

Suddenly, she turned to face him, and although she was staring right at him, it was almost as though she were staring straight through him as her eyes glazed over and a strange look crossed her face, mixing with the fear that was already there; it was almost as though she were in a trance, as she began to walk away from the window.

"_And his music fills my soul with a strange, dark sound._" There was something incredibly wrong; the way she sung these words, the melody… it was sad and dark, just like that song she had sang that night, all those months ago. "_Every night he comes haunt me in my dreams._" The haze left her eyes which looked down at her hands, blinking back a few tears. "_I feel trapped, only yearning to be free!_"

She looked at him, one lone tear slipping from her eye and down her rosy cheek. "_And I'm scared of what all of this could mean,_" she whispered, her eyes closing, relishing the warmth of his body the second he stalked forward toward her and pulled her into his arms.

The Phantom pulled slightly away from her, gently grabbing her face between his large hands, brushing away her tears. "**Oh, Gracelyn, it is but a dream.**"

It was clear in her eyes that she wished she could believe him, but she just couldn't find it in herself to. She weakly shook her head, placing her hands over his own, which remained on her face.

"_Though I can't see him well, his eyes glow in the dark,_" she told him as she began to pull away from his gentle hold, a shudder running down her spine as she recalled the stranger's eyes. "_Those eyes filled with an evil that brings fright to my heart…_"

"Gracelyn," the Phantom caller her out softly. When she did not respond, he grabbed her face in his hands again. "Gracelyn, look at me." Her eyes bored into his comforting blue-green orbs, and her insides instantly began to relax. "No one will hurt you, alright? I promise you, no harm will come to you as long as I am around."

"How can you promise that?" she whispered. "How can you be certain you'll be able to protect me from something you can't even see?"

The Phantom stared down at the frightened girl, unsure of what answer he could possibly give her, for he did not know so himself. "I don't know," he admitted. "But I promise to do everything I can to keep you safe, Gracelyn."

Her eyes were unreadable as they stared up at him. Though hard to read, however, he could tell she was internally debating with herself, considering what she should say next. Suddenly, she began to hum a soft melody that stroke the Phantom to the core. His insides churned as he recognized it as the song she had sung the night before he had first revealed himself to her. What struck his wonder even further was the fact that she did not seem to notice that she was humming at all. Then, the fear returned to her eyes as the same words poured from her lips.

"_Your eyes see but my shadow…_ _my heart is overflowing…_" Her whole body began to shake as her arms reached forward and clung to her mentor. "_There's so much you could come to know…_"

She could savor the salty taste of her tears as they slid down her cheek, past her lips and onto the tip of her tongue as she softly began to cry, her singing not ceasing once.

"_You're content not knowing…_"

Her eyes closed for a moment and a comforting feeling settled in the pit of her stomach, countering her fear as her Phantom wrapped his arms around her.

"_Tenderly… you could see…_" Her eyes fluttered open and stared up into the beautiful ocean eyes of the man before her, who stared back into her own just as intently, seemingly gazing into every inch of— "_My soul…_"

When she sang the last words, her eyes closing as she reached the extremely high note with ease, her eyes quickly snapped open afterward, looking into the Phantom's, fright coloring not only her face but also her voice as she admitted feeling so.

"_Angel of Music_… I am frightened," Gracelyn admitted.

"You are safe, my sweet Grace. I promise."

She stared into his eyes a moment longer, as though to make sure that he was real and truly there with her, promising to not only be her guide in music, but also her guardian… Her guardian angel. When she seemed to get her answer, merely within a second, she stood on her toes and placed a soft kiss against his oak-colored mask.

_By God!_ He wished he could feel this gentle kiss on his actual face, but he contented himself with simply relishing being on the receiving end of this genuinely affectionate gesture.

"Thank you," she whispered.

He smiled softly as he gazed down at her affectionately. "**Your wide-eyed stare… so full of wonder,**" he suddenly began to sing softly. "**Your curly hair…**" The man caressed her cheek ever so softly and tenderly, his hand lingering on her face, not wanting to let her go for fear that she might collapse, or, worse, disappear. "**Your contagious smile.**"

Her usual rosy cheeks seemingly regained their pink tint and seemed to darken beneath his touch, the corner of her plump lips lifting slightly at his words.

"**And as I watch,**" he continued. "**You swiftly grow up. All I can do… is hold you tight.**"

"_Knowing clouds will raise up?_" she asked. "_That storms will race in?_"

"**But you will be safe in my arms**," he reassured her.

"_Rains will pour down,_" she continued, wanting to be completely certain. "_Waves will crash all around._"

"**But you will be safe in my arms**," he reassured her again.

"_Castles— they might crumble. Dreams may not come true,_" she pressed.

"**But you are never all alone, because I will always… save… you.**"

There was that look in her eyes again as she stared at him intently, her seemingly dark eyes focused on nothing but him. "_When the clouds will rage in?_"

He smiled down at her once again, brushing a strand of hair out of her face. "**When storms will race in,**" he reassured her anew. "**I swear, you will be safe in my arms!**"

"_Rains will pour down!_" she went on. "_Waves will crash all around._"

"**But you will be safe…**" Slowly, his arms wound around her as he reassured her again. "**In my arms.**"

There was a moment of silence between them as they stood still, both relishing the warmth and comfort produced from each other as they remained so close, arms wound around each other, keeping them so.

"Thank you," Gracelyn whispered again. Her fear had settled some, but her body still shook.

"You're trembling," he murmured.

She pulled away slightly and gave him a tender look, smiling as she replied, "Don't worry, I'm alright now."

She kissed him again, this time on his exposed chin, leaving a tingling feeling where her lips had met his skin. She then leaned back downward, burying her face in his chest, smiling again softly to herself when she felt his lips press softly against the crown of her head.

"I can feel your heart beating," she mumbled.

A soft chuckle rumbled through his chest and made it to his lips, though before he could voice what he wished to reply, a small, soft voice filled with grogginess and exhaustion softly called the fifteen-year-old's name, causing the pair to instantly separate and look at the door. How little Christine had managed to open the door was beyond the Phantom, for he always kept the room locked and he possessed the only key to unlock it.

Gracelyn looked down at the six-year-old in surprise, her eyes widened slightly in shock when she noticed the broken doorknob little Christine was holding.

Noticing the older girl's stare, the little girl gave her a sheepish, slightly apologetic look as her face flushed slightly with embarrassment. "I'm sorry… I didn't mean to break it," she mumbled, her free hand absentmindedly fiddling with the skirt of her white nightgown. "It was already loose and rusty when I pulled on it."

"Sweetheart," Gracelyn said softly. "Why are you out of bed?"

Little Christine looked down at her feet. "You were gone," she said, before rushing over to her and throwing her arms around her. "I was scared."

Gracelyn frowned slightly at this as she took the broken doorknob and placed it on the grand piano's bench before grabbing the little girl's hand and gently holding it in her own. "Scared of what, Little Lotte?"

"I saw you leave with him," said Christine, momentarily glancing toward the Phantom. "I saw him take you into the shadows… I thought he was the other man."

Gracelyn and the Phantom visibly tensed.

"What other man?" the fifteen-year-old asked with a slight quiver in her tone.

"The man hiding in the dark," Christine sang softly. Her tone, the Phantom noticed, was sweet even for a child's voice, despite the somewhat dark melody she was singing in. "The one that brings fright to my heart… with his evil laughter and his dark glowing eyes."

Noticing the fright returning to Gracelyn's eyes, the Phantom neared the little girl, and knelt before her, giving her a small, comforting smile when she first took a step back before remaining still at Gracelyn's side.

"No harm will come to you, child," he said, his soft, soothing voice instantly calming her nerves.

"How do you know that?" she countered half-heartedly. Before he could reply, though, she asked him, "Why do you wear a mask?"

The Phantom did not know why he felt somewhat surprised at her question; this was not the first time someone he'd come across asked him this. Perhaps he'd just gotten used to the fact that Carrière, Antoinette, and the Monteverdi never asked.

"Did you have a twin like my aunt Christiane?" the little girl questioned him.

The Phantom had no idea what the little girl was going on about now. He was puzzled, for he knew she was only so talkative around her father, the Monteverdi, or little Meg Giry; right now, though, she was just throwing questions at him without giving him the time to answer.

"No," Gracelyn replied.

Christine looked up at the older girl. "Then why?"

"You know it's rude to ask people personal questions, Christine," said Gracelyn, a stern look upon her face. Christine's face flushed, her eyes dropping to her feet. Sighing, Gracelyn placed a hand on the little girl's head, her eyes softening. "Go to bed, Little Lotte; I'll be there in a minute."

"But the man—"

"Will not harm you," said the Phantom, causing both girls to look at him. "For as long as you reside in this Opera House, you are under my protection."

The little girl looked up at him with wondering eyes. "Who are you?"

The Phantom gave her the best warm smile he could muster. "A teacher, a tutor, a _Maestro_— call me whichever you will, for I have many names."

The Phantom and the fifteen-year-old found themselves relishing the brightening look on the little girl's face as she giggled upon hearing the slightly dramatic tone the man was using as he enigmatically introduced himself.

"Who are you really?" Christine pressed.

Looking up at the man with fond eyes, Gracelyn answered instead. "He's my Angel of Music."

Christine's face visibly lit up upon hearing this. "Angel of Music?" she repeated wonderingly. "Like the one in _Pappa_ and Uncle Fran's stories?"

Gracelyn nodded in confirmation, and then so the little girl turned back to the man, eyes alight as though she were watching fireworks go off. She was excited at the fact that she was meeting an angel, even though a part of her told her that this man wasn't actually an angel, and that Gracelyn knew it as well, but wouldn't admit it.

Little Christine then asked the Angel of Music what exactly he was doing with her cousin, to which he answered honestly, taking Gracelyn by surprise; after all, it _was_ he who had told her it'd be best to keep their lessons a secret. After Gracelyn had Christine wait out in the hallway for her, she stopped at the door, hesitating for a moment, before turning back to the Phantom.

"_Maestro_?"

"Yes, Gracelyn?"

She looked at him for a long moment before she said to him softly, "I have known you for quite a while now… and yet, I don't _know_… who are you?" When he didn't reply, she gradually began to make her way back to him, her eyes never leaving his. "May I at least have a name?" she tried.

For a long moment, he was silent before he said something rather contradictory to what he'd told Christine only moments ago, "I have no name."

"I refuse to believe that," she said quietly as she finally stood once more in front of him.

"And why is that?"

"Every angel is gifted with a name before they are gifted their title." She stepped closer to him and placed a hand on his arm. "And you _are_ an angel, are you not?" she said softly, her eyes staring deeply into his. "_My_ Angel of Music."

The Phantom let out a soft chuckle, gazing down at her affectionately as he placed a hand over her own, keeping it on his arm. "You are far too kind, my dear."

"Only to those who deserve it," she replied.

He shook his head. "I don't believe I deserve such—"

"Well, I do," she cut him off. "Everyone deserves kindness. Not every night must have a moonless sky."

The Phantom stared at his apprentice for a moment before letting out a faint disbelieving chuckle. It was clear he still did not want to give his name; he still believed she might change her mind of being with him.

What if he _did_ tell her his name? What if he did and she then chose to push away the man she believed an angel?

He was suddenly snapped out of his doubt-filled thoughts when he noticed the girl beginning to walk away from him again. He panicked when he saw her head dropped forward, staring at the ground sadly. Had he hurt her? He would never want to do that— he _promised_ he would never do that.

"Erik," he suddenly blurted out.

Gracelyn halted in her step upon hearing her mentor's sputter. It had been practically mumbled, so she hadn't been able to make it out from the distance she now stood at, near the door again.

"Pardon?" she asked, craning her neck to glance back at him over her shoulder.

"Erik Destler," he said quietly. "That is my name."

Again, her eyes were practically penetrating into his dark soul as she looked him straight in his own. Suddenly, her pink plump lips curled into the largest smile he'd been yearning to see in the past few weeks that she'd funked into her gloomy state. She quickly made her way back over to him in three, surprisingly long strides for someone her size and stood on her toes as she stood right in front of him once more.

"It is a great pleasure to properly meet and know you, Monsieur Erik Destler," she said softly.

Then, craning her neck as she reached upward, she, once again, placed a kiss on his masked face.

"Have a good night," she whispered before she was gone like the wind, silently disappearing behind the door like a phantom he pretended to be.

* * *

**Footnotes**

**Introduced Characters**

**Nicolas Ledoux **(mentioned only) is an inspector for the secret police who has been investigating Erik for years.

**Translations**

**"D'accord, mon ami."** : "Okay, my friend." (in French)

**"Je dois partir, mais j'espère te revoir à un de ces jours."** : "I must go, but I hope to see you again one of these days." (in French)

**"Moi aussi."** : "Me too." (in French)

**"À la prochaine!"** : "See you next time!" (in French)

**Mon ange**: My angel (in French)

**Maman**: Mom (in French)


	7. Chapter Five

**Chapter Five**

**Tuesday, November 1, 1870**

Merely a Tuesday after Gracelyn's little revelation, people were bustling up and about the Opera House, everyone finishing up the last preparations for the opening night of the new play they'd be performing, _La Traviata_.

Since Gracelyn had finished her preparations the night before, she left the Opera that morning, heading out to the market with a piece of paper in hand; the cook— Chef Clotaire had given her a list of things that were needed in the kitchens, and since she had no more chores left of her own, she offered her services and decided to leave as early as possible.

Her last destination was a little farm on the outskirts of the marketplace. It wasn't so much a farm, but more of a little house with a small stable filled with chickens, a rooster, a cow, two or three horses and a donkey. Gracelyn struggled slightly with her baskets full of food as she neared Madame Mormont's little house. The little farm nestled just on the outskirts of the marketplace was property of the Mormont family. Gracelyn was usually the one to visit the farm for Chef Clotaire to buy some eggs from the Mormonts, which was very much the case that morning.

Placing her groceries on the fountain nearby, Gracelyn began to take bag by bag from her basket into the little house, where Madame Mormont had left the door open especially for the young girl while she busied herself with finishing up her baking of a couple of three-story cakes.

"_Bonjour, Madame Mormont._"

"_Bonjour, ma petite,_" the woman replied kindly. "Sweet Belle, if you're not in too much of a hurry, would you mind keeping an eye around for a moment? I must take these cakes to Madame Rouzier for the little gathering she's holding this evening."

"Of course, Madame. It would be no problem at all. I'm just going to bring in the rest of my things, but you're free to go right away if you wish," said Gracelyn.

Madame Mormont gave her a kind smile. "You're an angel," she said fondly, before leaving the little cottage with her son in toe, calling over her shoulder that they'd be back soon for the other cake.

As the two Mormonts were gone, Gracelyn resumed bringing her things inside the little cottage, settling them on the beside the door. Just as she was about to get the last few bags she had, she bumped straight into Corin's chest.

"Belle!" the man exclaimed himself happily.

Fighting back a grimace, the girl merely spared the man a glance as she nodded at him in greeting before walking past him to the rest of her things.

"So Belle!" he exclaimed himself again as he trailed at her heels. "I don't know if you heard, but I saved Madame… the nice lady who owns the hat shop! I saved her little girl!"

Gracelyn could only roll her eyes when he wasn't looking. The little girl was being molested by boys a little older than her. Perhaps, in a way, he did save her, but it was nothing to go boasting about. Anyone would have done it— in fact, _anyone_ indeed was about to. He simply got there sooner.

"I was pretty great back there, if I do say so myself," he continued proudly. "I mean— back in battle."

The young teenager silently scoffed. _Yeah, back in battle against a bunch of ten-year-olds._

"That was twelve years ago, Monsieur Corin," she replied.

She'd heard about his time in the war. He had been part of the Second Opium War, having participated in many known battles, namely the Battle of Canton. The last fight he had been apart of was the Battle of Taku Fort, which was what sprouted his fame amongst the people of Paris, for it had been one of the French latest most successfully won battles. That and, for some reason, everyone found his back-story fascinating, though Gracelyn could not really see what they saw. Yes, he'd left at a young age, but not too young so that he should actually boast about how he grew from a child to a man during the war.

He'd been twenty-two, and that was long past the age of a young man in this era.

She could understand how he actually missed everything and anything related to battle, but she was tired of hearing him go on about it whenever he caught up to her.

"Sad, I know," he said before advancing toward her when she came to a halt. "Belle, I know you think I have it all—" Never really thought that, but… _okay_. "— but there is something that I'm missing."

Gracelyn regarded him oddly. "I can't imagine."

"A wife," he breathed out, stepping closer.

Gracelyn's eyes nearly bulged out of their sockets at his blunt forwardness. Not knowing what to reply, she merely closed the first gate from the little cottage and locked it. Armand momentarily glanced down upon noticing her not so subtle attempt at pushing him away, then looked back at her, unrelenting.

"You know, you're not really living until you see yourself reflected in someone else's eyes."

She raised a brow at him, giving him a disbelieving look. "And you can see yourself in mine?" she retorted.

"Oh, yes," he replied in what she was sure he believed to be a seductive tone; honestly, she just thought he looked ridiculous. "We're both fighters."

She shook her head slightly as she took, yet, another step back and away from the gate.

"Yes, that's right; I heard you had trouble with the headmaster the day before yesterday," he added quickly, trying to keep her from leaving. "Quite the fighter," he repeated.

The girl frowned; she had indeed gotten in "trouble" with the headmaster of the, presently, only academic institution in town. She really wouldn't say her act was worthy of being called "trouble", for all she had done was try to teach one of the newest students of that little school how to read. It was a little girl, no older than eight years old; she was from a well-bred family, and yet she had not been taught how to read before attending school for the first time.

Having noticed the fifteen-year-old knew how to read, the little girl had sought her out one morning and asked her to teach her. Gracelyn didn't mind doing so, and so the two would meet many mornings before the school was to start, and sweet Grace would teach her how to read and spell out new words, using the books she would borrow from Père Robert's book shop. It had only been until two days prior the present that the girls had been caught in their secret lessons by the headmaster, and said man scolded the young costume girl for interfering with his teaching ways.

"He never liked me either," Corin drawled on, trying to sound reassuring.

"Can't imagine why," she uttered, tone laced with sarcasm and blatant disinterest.

Frankly, though, Gracelyn couldn't care less for what this man was telling her, for all really wanted was to get away from him, and so she hurried her pace, trying her best to ignore him. However, this proved to be harder than she'd hoped for as the man practically ran after her, calling out to her.

"Can I give you a little advice about the villagers, though?" said Armand Corin. "They are never going to trust the kind of change you're trying to bring."

By the time he'd finished his sentence, the usually calm and composed, kind girl could simply not hold in her anger and irritation with this man anymore.

Fuming at his words, she spun on her little feet to look at him with wide eyes full of anger and disbelief when she saw he'd stamped over almost all of Madame Mormont's fully sprouted green cabbages, planted in the small garden right behind the gates in the front of the small cottage.

"All I wanted was to teach a child how to read!" Gracelyn said defensively.

Armand gave her a tender smile as he took a step closer to her. "The only children you should concern yourself with are… your own."

The motion of his hand, shifting back in forth between the both of them specifically, did not go unnoticed by Gracelyn, and, this time, she did not fight the disgusted grimace that took over her face as her eyes widened once more in disbelief as she finally began to grasp why this man always chased her.

"I am _not_ ready to have children," she quipped as she hurried further ahead towards the steps of the small cottage. Just as she turned to close the second gate behind her, she let out a startled gasp when she found herself face to face with the man she was trying to run away from.

"Maybe you haven't met the right man," said the hunter, placing his large hands over her small ones, which hurried to lock the gate.

Gracelyn scoffed, removing her hands from under his. "City this may be, but it's really a considerably _small _village; I've met them all," she said, scrunching her nose slightly before spinning on her heels once more, turning her back to him as she grabbed her bags and hurried to the small staircase.

"Well… maybe you should take another look," Corin insisted, unlocking the gate and hurrying after her. "_Some_ of us have changed."

Gracelyn let out an exasperated sigh as she turned to look back at the man; why did he keep insisting? She was a child, compared to him— why couldn't he see that?!

"Monsieur Corin!" she exclaimed herself, looking him straight in the eyes. "_We_ are _never_ going to make each other happy— _no one_ can change _that_ much."

"Oh, Belle," he tutted her softly. "Do you know what happens to spinsters in this village after their fathers die?" Pointing at a beggar woman a few houses away, he said, "They beg for scraps like poor ol' Marise."

The girl's jaw dropped. Stepping forward, the man remained on the ground level as so to keep his face at the same level as hers, though he leaned forward till he was practically breathing in her face.

"You know, Belle, there's not a girl in town who wouldn't love to be in your shoes." The girl's mouth shut close as she gave him a puzzled look. "_This_ is the day…" Corin paused for a moment when he caught sight of his reflection on the mirror beside him and halted in his sentence to check himself out. Admiring his own reflection, straightening his coat, he went on, "This is the day your dreams could come true…"

The girl was overly puzzled by the meaning behind all he was saying, though, after a moment of recollecting the pieces of the puzzle which were his words, her eyes widened as she recoiled.

_Oh, God, please tell me he's not going to…_

She began to back away, stumbling slightly as she climbed the stairs backwardly as he advanced on her.

"… the day you throw out these stupid books—"

He snatched the book peeking out from one of her bags and tossed it far behind him, where it landed on Louis' head, knocking down the boy who had been seeking to come to her rescue. Neither noticing the boy— Gracelyn from her panic, and Armand from his focus on her— Corin continued to advance on the poor girl, who only continued to cower away. By then, they had made it inside the cottage without either of them really realizing it.

Gracelyn then subconsciously dropped her bags at the foot of the table as she continued to back away, suddenly realizing where she was now. _Just great_. Now she had to find a way to make it back outside; otherwise, she'll stay trapped in there with him until Madame Mormont and her son came back, which would probably still be a while.

"Promise to honor and obey…" Corin glanced down at the cake Madame Mormont had left out to cool off with the same hungry gaze he'd usually look Gracelyn over with. "… tie on an apron and…" He ran a finger through the icing and tasted it, smiling to himself in contentment. Then, grabbing her arm, he exclaimed himself, "Become my perfect little wife!"

He stood there, grinning broadly, like a victorious hunter with his trophy. Gracelyn felt her jaw drop once more, not only from being surprised, but also from feeling greatly offended _and_ disgusted.

"Are you insane?!" she shrieked, for the first time in forever, losing her calm and quiet composure. "No!"

Armand Corin stared at her, utterly shocked by her reaction as she eased herself out of his grasp, irritated and angry.

"Listen here, Monsieur Corin— I frankly do _not_ care what era this is, but who the hell do you take yourself for? Who on earth do you take _me_ for?! I am not some twittering, gossiping _woman_ you can simply force into doing your bidding for life. I am _not_ some… some _prize_ to attain! I am a _girl_! You cannot simply demand things like that from me. And— by _God_! Do _not_ call me Belle. My name is _Gracelyn Monteverdi_, and I am my own person."

During her entire ranting speech, she had been poking at his shoulder rather hard, pushing him further and more towards the door.

"And you know what that means? It means _nobody_ makes decisions for me! I may be a _child_, but it will be only _I_ who will choose for myself what path I shall take for my own future. Alright? Nobody does that for me! How my life goes is my choice! Got it? _My _choice," she snarled, finally managing to push him out the door and onto the top of the stairs. "And I choose to _never_ marry _you_."

Frozen in his shock, before he could be given a moment's breath to react, the fifteen-year-old girl had slammed the door in his face. Gracelyn shut her eyes, leaning against the now closed door, trying to hear something other than the chickens clucking and bawking outside. She waited a few minutes, inhaling and exhaling deeply as she tried to calm herself; never had she ever lashed out at anyone like this.

After a few more minutes passed, she couldn't help but wonder if the man was gone by now, but she knew the only way to know this was by going outside, so, opening the door by a few inches, she chanced a peek outside and sighed in relief when Armand Corin was nowhere in sight.

She let out a chuckle full of disbelief, pulling a handkerchief from the pocket of her apron and wiping the bit of sweat that had gathered on her brow.

"Can you imagine?" she mumbled to herself.

The chickens strutting about paused and looked up at her, chirping and clucking, seemingly understanding her.

"He asked me to marry him. _Me_! The wife of that boorish, brainless…" She shuddered at the thought. "_"Madame Corin!"_ Can't you just see it? _"Madame Corin!" His little wife_— ugh! No sir! Not me! I guarantee it— _I want much more than this provincial life!"_"

She then left the little cottage through the back door and ran off past the bridge behind the house and toward the meadows a few yards a mountain up. When she reached the top, she stared off at the beautiful plains just outside the invisible walls of that "little town". The seemingly disembodied music then began to swell, and she easily picked it up, and clutched it to herself and sang emotionally.

"_I want adventure in the great wide somewhere._" Her arms spread at her sides before folding inward, her hands clutching at the fabric of her dress covering her chest. "_I want it more than I can tell._"

She sat on the grassy field, beginning to absentmindedly brush her hands over some balding dandelions.

"_And for once it might be grand… to have someone understand…_" She sighed, laying down on the grassy bed made by mother nature, staring up at the blue sky. "_I want so much more than they've got planned…_"

Gracelyn remained in her newfound safe haven for a few more minutes, inhaling the comforting scent of the healthy grass blades fluttering against her arms from the breeze, a small smile curling on the edge of her lips as she felt the white floaties of the many cottoned dandelions brush against her hands and forearms.

Then, she sighed; really, she _did_ love Paris. Truth be told, she was born there in 1988 and lived there for four years in their family _house_ until her mother passed away. She could still remember her parents never leaving the other's side as they attempted to renovate the French Monteverdi estate on their own, an estate that hadn't been lived in since the late nineteenth century.

Her brows furrowed slightly as she suddenly sat up, gazing back toward the village; the city was much more modern the time she had lived in it as a child, but there were many things she noticed now that hadn't changed from the time that was now present to her, all the way forth to 1992. Looking up at the sky, she let out another small sigh before letting out a small yelp, startled by the sudden pressure on her shoulder. She glanced behind her and a small smile curled onto her lips upon seeing the new arrival.

"Louis," she greeted him quietly.

"I'm sorry about Monsieur Corin— I swear I tried to stop him, but he wouldn't listen," said the boy as he helped her to her feet.

"It's not your fault, Louis," she reassured him. "He's just…"

"Quite stubborn," Louis finished.

""Quite"? More like "_very_,"" she retorted. "He had me cornered in Madame Mormont's cottage! And he destroyed her cabbages and the cake she had just baked merely two dozen minutes before."

"I'll try harder, I promise," said the boy.

Gracelyn paused for a moment and looked back at him, staring at him rather intently. "You shouldn't have to do that, Louis," she said softly. "It's not your job to try and keep a grown man away from me."

He grabbed her hand and gently tugged on it. "But I want to… I want to protect you," he admitted, voice soft and careful as he thought through his words before speaking. "Grace, I like you. You're the first _true_ friend I've ever had, and I don't like him using that to get close to you in an inappropriate way. I don't want him to force himself in any way on you or hurt you."

The girl looked at him a moment longer, then cracked another small smile. "Thank God for you, _mon cher ami_," she mumbled as she stepped forward and hugged him lightly, a gesture he immediately returned.

Pulling out of the embrace, he took a hold of her hand once more and smiled down at her, tugging at her fingers again. "Come on, we should head back to Madame Mormont's. I'll help you with your groceries to the Opera House."

"Alright." She smiled, letting him lead her back toward the village. "You're quite a boy," she said fondly.

He merely raised a brow, giving her a sideways glance. "… do you mean that in a bad way or in a good way?"

Gracelyn merely smiled. "In a good way." Her brows then furrowed as she suddenly thought back to the whispers she'd managed to hear behind her back. "Do you think I'm odd?"

Louis merely smiled back, gently patting her head before wrapping an arm around her shoulders amicably. "In a good way," he replied.

And they both laughed.

**P・****O・****T・****O・****P・****O・****T・****O**

Around nine o'clock in the morning, Francis stood before the body-length mirror in his bedroom, brushing his dark hair and keeping it tight against his scalp with oils which he used as hair gel. He had not changed into his attire for the show, for it was still very early in the morning, but, unlike his daughter who had inherited her tamed curls from her mother, his dark curls were usually a mess hard to control.

Though he had already chosen what he would wear at the show, he took his sweet time to focus on his thick locks, having no need to rehearse anymore, for his music partitions played in his head over and over again, the clear memory of it all giving him the primitive reassurance of his flawless playing.

"Someone is after your daughter," a voice spoke from the shadows, startling the man.

Francis sighed, placing his comb on the night table beside him. "You shouldn't sneak up on people like that; I nearly combed my hair off my head."

"I apologize," the seemingly disembodied voice said with a soft chuckle before seriousness filled its tone anew. "But I believe there are more important matters to assess than hair; your daughter thinks someone is after her."

Francis' brows furrowed upon hearing this. "If you are speaking of Armand Corin, I have already made plans to confront this man on his approaches toward my daughter. He just always seems to run away whenever I'm merely in sight," he muttered.

The Phantom hummed thoughtfully as he walked out from the shadowy corner beside the wardrobe and glided over to the sole window of the room, staring out at the morning lit city, his hands behind his back. "Gracelyn _has_ mentioned Monsieur… Corin a few times, but I am afraid whoever she fears is not as pathetic and harmless as him."

"Fears?"

"Gracelyn believes she's being haunted. And I don't think it to be much of a coincidence that little Christine Daaé thinks so too."

Francis heaved a heavy sigh, a frown sliding onto his face as he ran a hand through his hair, completely oblivious to the fact that he just messed up his hair-do. "Why would anyone want to hurt her?"

Erik's eyes fell to the ground and remained so, staring intently at it for a long moment before he spoke again.

"It is… a blessing and a curse from God…" he began slowly, reciting the Spanish-Italian man's words. "To have so many people love her and willing to protect her… and yet, so many obsess over her and do not care what harm they put her through as long as they have her."

Francis looked back at the man and nodded. "You're right, you're right…"

Erik chuckled half-heartedly. "Those were your words, not mine."

"I know, but…" Francis frowned. "Well, we got our answer to the why, but… I guess, the only question now is _who_. Who would wish harm upon my daughter?"

"I will find this man, Francis," said Erik as he backed into the shadows. "And he will regret any harm he has ever wished upon your daughter. I promise."

And with that last word, Francis was left alone in his room, feeling rather angry and unsettled at the news. Ignoring his clothes laid out on his bed, and his now messy hair, he went to find his daughter, whom he knew was already back, and, much to her half-hearted complaints, he coddled her and practically glued her to his side as so to make sure, firsthand, that no one would try and do her any harm.

_What a loving, protective father_, Gracelyn could not help but think then as she glanced up at her father every now and then, a clear look of fondness in her eyes as she relished the warmth of his embrace.

She could only hope that night would be just as heartwarming…

**P・****O・****T・****O・****P・****O・****T・****O**

When night came about, and everyone was preparing for the opening, Gracelyn quickly wished her father and uncle good luck before leaving the backstage and making her way back to her room; since she had done and finished all her work before noon, she was given the rest of the afternoon and night off. She had merely stayed until an hour before the opening to make sure everything she had done well stayed well.

When she had entered her room that night, her state of constant vigilance had somewhat diminished upon seeing the small figure of little Christine sound asleep on their shared bed. She had gone to her wardrobe and opened it quietly, ready to change into her nightwear, for she too was tired and wanted nothing more but to go to bed, but she suddenly stopped when the quiet, soothing voice of her mentor echoed softly among the walls of her sleeping quarters.

"I had hoped you would join me tonight," he told her. "In my box."

She smiled to herself, timidly shifting her eyes to the ground as she tugged on her apron and the skirt of her work dress. "I would love nothing more but, _Maestro_. Unfortunately, I'm afraid I do not own anything suitable enough for such an occasion."

"That is why," he said, suddenly appearing seemingly out of nowhere beside her. "I brought you this."

Gracelyn looked over at her tutor and glanced down to see what he had brought her. As soon as her eyes fell upon what he'd gotten her, a small gasp escaped her lips as she looked back up at the Phantom.

He smiled at her. "I noticed it caught your eye a couple nights ago. Made some adjustments— should fit you."

The fifteen-year-old's face lit up like a child on Christmas morning. She thanked the man with a kiss on his masked face before taking the gown and walking behind the changing screen. When she finally emerged from behind it a couple minutes later, Erik felt his heart stop upon seeing his beautiful angel, for she was truly quite a sight to behold.

The gown she now wore looked very out of place on her, and yet seemed as though it were made just for her at the same time. It was your typical Victorian gown, though nowhere near revealing so that it suited her for her age. The light pink color looked pretty against her olive complexion, and the flowery design laid out on it in a darker shade of pink complimented her rosy cheeks, making her faint blush seemingly more prominent.

She quickly slipped on a pair of pink flat shoes that complimented her gown and smiled brightly when the Phantom advanced on her and gave her a somewhat playful look as he placed a flower crown on her head.

"A crown for a princess," he said softly, his hands lingering in her long, dark curls which she had let out of her slightly messy hair-bun.

The Phantom then held out an arm to her, which Gracelyn slid her own through immediately, and the pair readied themselves to go through one of his secret tunnels, when a small voice suddenly stopped them.

"May I come along?"

Gracelyn instantly tore herself away from Erik, leaving him rather upset as he watched her put all of her attention on the little girl looking back at her from her bed. He knew it was rather ridiculous to be jealous of a little girl for taking away the attention of his apprentice, but he could not help it. He had never been so close to anyone before. He was familiar with Gérard and Antoinette, and even perhaps Francis, but he'd never been as close to anyone as he was to Gracelyn.

Said young woman turned to look back at him, her eyes silently asking for his permission. When he smiled at her, she smiled back ever so brightly and turned to look at the little girl, pulling her into her arms as she murmured into her ear. Christine was suddenly fully awake and full of energy; not bothering to change clothes, she simply sought out a shawl and was quick to latch onto Gracelyn's hand as her other was occupied by her mentor pulling her into the dark secret passage that would lead them to his box.

After leaving the girls in his department, he quickly rushed back to their room as going back to his would take far too long. He then sought and found a plume, ink, and a piece of parchment on which he then wrote two words, signed, folded, and sealed with his infamous red mark, before heading off to the rafters, in a dark corner where the stagehands would not see him. When he found the person he was looking for, he quickly dropped the note, then molded back into the shadows, quietly making his way back to the little ladies awaiting his return.

Meanwhile, Antoinette barked at the ballet rats, doing an unintentionally impeccable impression of Madame Girard. After a long moment of spouting orders at them, she walked over to the edge of the left wing and peeked out through the curtains, feeling surprised that the room was actually filling itself quite wholly; it was almost as though everyone had forgotten the series of unfortunate events that had fallen upon the Prima Donna on the last opening night.

Just as she was about to head back to ballerinas, something suddenly fluttered down from above. When she went to investigate what it was, she found it was a folded parchment, sealed with a red skull. Knowing exactly who it was from, she all but ripped it open.

_Box Five_, was all that was written on it, the signature of the infamous Opera Ghost following right below.

Antoinette was quick to hurry from the backstage to the large elegant staircase that led up to each box on the west side of the amphitheater. Quietly knocking three times on the door, she waited patiently for the owner of the box to respond. The wooden door opened but merely a crack, not revealing who stood on the other side of the door.

"Madame Giry," came the quiet, soothing voice of the Phantom.

"Monsieur?"

"A footstool, please," was all he said.

Madame Giry knew better than to question the man's reasoning behind his demands, and, although curious to his suddenly odd request, she obliged, bringing the item requested before returning backstage, where the dancers awaited her signal.

Little over half an hour through, Gracelyn found herself rather intrigued by the performances of her coworkers. The singers' voices were at their best… with a _certain_ exception, and the dancers were exquisite. Nothing bad had happened so far, and she found herself enjoying _La Traviata_ very much. By this point in the play, it was only her and Monsieur Destler left in Box Five, for little Christine had fallen asleep halfway through the play and was taken back to her room by Erik.

It wasn't until the play had finally reached the end of the first act that Gracelyn thought she might've jinxed the first normal play she had witnessed at the Opéra Populaire. When the actors had reached the jaunty brindisi scene, things went downhill, albeit in a very funny way. In this scene, the female lead— Amélie— was passing out glasses of champagne to several suitors, while singing about the transient pleasures of love.

Of course, there was no way Amélie could play a character without putting a little bit— a lot— of herself in it. Performing with self-aggrandizing pomposity, she flung her arms wide, showing off to the audience at every given opportunity.

"_Godiam, fugace e rapido è il gaudio dell'amore,_" Amélie all but butchered as she handed one of the two remaining glasses from the tray to Alfredo, leaning in on him and stroking his chest as she was meant to do.

It happened when she reached the end of her next line that misfortune decided to grace her with its presence.

"_È un fior che nasce e muore, ne più si può goder—_" She cut herself off with a gasp when she went to grab the last glass for herself, only to find it sticking to the tray.

The audience burst into laughter when the woman continued to sing with a shaky voice, flinging the glass with the tray around, trying to find a way to escape the embarrassing spectacle she was caught in.

Up in Box Five, Gracelyn had to cover her mouth with her hand to keep herself from laughing as loudly as everyone else in the auditorium including the actors sharing the stage with the humiliated woman. She felt bad for the embarrassment the woman was going through, but it was just too funny not to laugh at.

The girl watched on with tired eyes as the curtains were then closed, ending the play earlier than scheduled. Feeling too exhausted to get up, she slouched in her seat, absentmindedly leaning her head against her mentor's shoulder, startling him.

When the man looked down at the girl beside him, he could not help but stare at her beautiful face, looking ever so peaceful as sleep swept her away from him. Wrapping his cloak around her, he carefully lifted her up in his arms and carried her back to her room through his secret tunnels, saddened for having to part ways with her, even if it was only for the night.

**Friday, November 11, 1870**

There was an unreadable glint twinkling in Erik's eyes as he watched the beautiful Gracelyn Monteverdi sing out loud with her whole heart and soul. Once they reached the end of the aria they'd been rehearsing, he closed the wooden lid over the black and white keys of the piano.

Noticing the mute state her mentor was suddenly in, Gracelyn frowned slightly from where she stood on the other side of the grand piano, folding her hands over the edge of the instrument as she tried to decipher the look he was giving her.

"Have I done something wrong?" she suddenly asked. The Phantom shook his head. She momentarily glanced down at her hands before looking back at him and timidly asking him, "Does my voice not please you?"

Her words visibly startled the man. His hands flattened over the wooden lid of the piano as he retorted in a rather confused tone, "Please me?" He chuckled softly. "Ever since I was a child, you are what I've heard in my dreams."

Gracelyn's gaze shifted downward once more, the praising words of her mentor rendering her even more timid than she previously was. Her heart skipped a beat when he suddenly paused, and she felt herself suddenly worrying for what he was going to say next.

"I can't teach you any more than this."

Her head snapped up, eyes widening in horror. Was he really going to stop teaching her? Was he going to stop seeing her as well? He was the only friend other than her father and Louis with whom she could have fully lengthened conversations. With whom she could share her deepest feelings and secrets without being judged in return. He was her safe haven when her father couldn't be.

"What? Why?" she asked, her voice shaking with panic.

"You're ready."

Her brows furrowed in confusion. _Ready?_ "For what?"

"To audition for the company," he replied simply, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world.

Gracelyn nearly let out a cry of relief, but then felt her sudden relief dampen upon hearing his words echo in her head. _To audition…_ "But they're not holding auditions anymore," she told him sadly.

"That doesn't matter. It will happen soon…" said the Phantom, standing from the piano bench and walking over to the window, staring out at the dimly lit streets of Paris, glowing in the night. "One way or another."

Gracelyn stared at him for a moment before walking his way. "There's one thing you've not told me," she said suddenly. "Where do you live?"

"When you sing, I live in the heavens, and when you do not, down below."

His words made her heart swell. Closing the distance between them, she wrapped her arms around his torso from behind, pressing her cheek against his back. Gracelyn was seemingly unaware of the shivers running down his spine; her simple touch took his breath away.

Before a visible reaction could arise from the mere closeness of her body to his, or her simple touch, he gently pulled her arms from around him and pushed them away.

She looked up at him, staring him in the eyes as she so often did. "How will I ever repay you for this?" she asked, ever so innocently, gently grasping his shoulder.

He looked down at her, stricken by the touch, and a lifetime of solitude and frustration momentarily darkened his features as a silent warning against discussing terms of "repayment". Her smile suddenly vanished, and the atmosphere suddenly took on a rather sensual turn as the pair gazed into each other's eyes.

Unable to stop himself, he brought his hand up and caressed her rosy cheek ever so softly. "Having you with me is all I need," he breathed out.

It took both of them a moment to grasp what he had said and the meaning behind his words, but both the Phantom and the girl found themselves unable to do anything about it, other than embrace it.

There are some things one just cannot fight.

**Monday, November 14, 1870**

"Jean-Claude!" young Philippe De Chagny greeted the man upon leaving his carriage.

The doorman of the Opera House smiled brightly upon seeing the young man. "_Monsieur le Comte_! We weren't expecting you for weeks!"

Philippe chuckled. "I know. I was away on business with my father and I saw that my only business was to come back," he told the older man. "Now, please say yes. Is there a girl here named Gracelyn?"

Jean-Claude decided to pull on the boy's strings a little and feigned confusion. "Gracelyn?"

"Do not joke!"

Jean-Claude chuckled at his reaction. "Well, this is remarkable. Is it possible that _Monsieur le Vicomte_ is in love?"

Philippe laughed. "In love? How could I be in love? I hardly know the girl!"

It wasn't entirely a lie; this Gracelyn was nothing like the one he had known growing up. She was much more reserved and secretive, and much less open about her many talents. She was also much more modest about her extravagant looks than she used to be.

"But that is how it happens," said Jean-Claude.

"Really…"

"In my experience it's the only way," the doorman shrugged. "We all thought you were immune."

Philippe gave him a small smile. "So did I." He then leaned forward and lowered his voice in a playful tone. "Don't let it get around. My reputation would be ruined!"

Jean-Claude decided to play along. "I understand."

"So, where is she?"

"Who?"

"Don't do this!"

Jean-Claude gave him a bright smile and nodded toward the door. "She's inside."

"Is she in the chorus yet?" the young man asked as the doorman lead him toward the backstage.

"The chorus?" Jean-Claude replied, perplexed by his question.

"My father and I sent her father and uncle here to join the band. We sent _her_ here so she could have singing lessons. She has the most astounding voice!"

Jean-Claude was surprised by this. "She's been put in the costume department."

The young Vicomte came to a halt at the bottom of a staircase up which were climbing the chorus girls, some glancing his way, recognizing him.

"Costume department? But _I_ sent instructions to Carrière!"

"Monsieur Carrière was fired," Jean-Claude informed him sadly. "There are new managers now. It's not the same here anymore."

"Well, is she all right?"

"She's fine," Jean-Claude replied a bit too quickly, averting his eyes.

Philippe frowned upon noticing this. "Something is wrong."

"No, no, nothing! Nothing's wrong."

But that statement didn't stand for long as the chorus girls ran down the stairs and flung themselves at the Vicomte in a shrieky squish of a welcome.

And only then did poor Gracelyn walk past, her hair tied up in a messy ponytail, her blue dress covered in dust, and her air of dignity painful as she pushed her little costume cart. Some of the chorus girls had stopped fawning over the young Vicomte upon noticing her and the dazed look in her eyes as she hummed that haunting tune they heard her sing more often lately.

It was frightening and concerning to watch as she would sometimes be gazing at nothing and everything, and simply humming that tune, flares of emotions washing over her face, mostly pain and fear. And she never seemed aware she was doing it. They had once heard little Meg Giry ask her what that song was that she was humming, but Gracelyn would simply reply that she had no idea what song she was referring to in the first place.

Upon finally taking notice of the young girl pushing her little costume cart, Philippe extricated himself from the harpies' clutches and went over to her.

"Gracelyn!" He ran over to her, snapping her out of her daze. "Gracelyn, I swear, I did not intend for you to be doing this!"

The young man then went on unhappily whining, like a little boy, that she should be having the voice lessons he promised her.

Her face was unreadable as she coldly answered that she was honored just to be there. She then tried to flounce off, and while he tried to stop her, the chorus girls gathered in the doorway to watch, titter, and act annoying.

"No! You should be having singing lessons!"

"Will you be at the Bistro tonight?" Flora suddenly asked, interrupting him.

Finally comprehending the futility of trying to talk to Gracelyn when she wouldn't look at him, Philippe turned to look back at Flora and gave her one of his charming smiles. "Better than that," he told her. "Because I am so happy to be back with all of you, I am going to give a party tonight. For the entire company. At the Bistro!"

He turned his attention back to Gracelyn and looked her in the eyes, giving her one of his more boyish smiles.

"And you're my special guest."

Gracelyn's eyes widened upon hearing this. "Philippe," she began to protest, earning herself another of his boyish smiles upon calling him by his name. She rolled her eyes at him. "It is not a good idea for me to—"

"It's settled!" he cut her off, not wanting to hear her excuses as to why she "can't" come. He knew why— she didn't want to come. But she was going to.

She _had_ to.

Later that day, Gracelyn sat at the foot of her father's bed, begging her father to not let her go to the Bistro. It wasn't really that she couldn't, but more like she didn't want to go with Philippe. He had been a good friend of hers during the months she spent at the De Chagny's residence before coming to the Opera House. But she didn't like associating herself with the likes of people he turned out to be— womanizers, men who played with women's hearts. By no means was she in love with the young man, but she felt as though associating with him might bring her people who don't like her. And she knew not everyone could like her, but she didn't want to be looked down on or despised for a simple association.

"Just make up any excuse! Please, _Papá_, I don't want to go!"

"My sweet Grace, look at this as a chance to showcase your talent."

"But I don't want to showcase my talent— I don't want to go," she repeated.

"Why are you so angry with the boy?" her father asked her.

"… it's not that I'm angry at him, it's just…"

Francis knelt in front of his daughter and caressed her rosy cheek. "_Mi hija_, come to the Bistro. It'll do you some good to relax for once."

"Aren't I supposed to be over eighteen to go to places like that?" she tried again, helplessly.

"There's no rule for that yet, _mi querida_," Francis chuckled. "Now go get yourself ready."

Gracelyn pouted and dragged her feet all the way to her room. She stood in front of her wardrobe, looking over the dresses she had. Nothing was fancy enough for such a place. She still had the gown the Phantom had given her, but she didn't want to wear that one— he had made it for a particular event he had wished to attend with her, it was not to be shared with others.

Suddenly, the soft voice of her mentor startled her, as usual, appearing out of nowhere.

"The Bistro is what we've been waiting for," he told her, suddenly appearing at her side.

She looked at him, brows furrowed in confusion. "It is? How is that?"

"At the Bistro, everyone sings. It's the tradition, that's why the company loves going there," he told her. "And you will sing too. Then they all will hear. There will be no way Amélie Choleti can say no."

Gracelyn was not about to defy her mentor's wishes, but she had nothing to wear. As if reading her mind, the man held out a finger in indication for her to wait a moment. He walked back into the panel in the wall, disappearing into the shadows of the tunnel. A few minutes later, he reappeared with a dress made of golden silk and beautiful embroidery.

"This is what you will wear."

Gracelyn looked at the dress, then back up at the Phantom, biting down her lower lip.

Well, it looks like she will be going after all.

As night fell, the Phantom found himself helping Gracelyn prepare for her début, soothing her nerves as best as he could. His breathed became heavy at the close proximity of their bodies, and his fingers trembled as he slowly laced up her gown.

"You have nothing to be concerned about. I have faith," he told her reassuringly. "I promise you, you're going to be fine."

When he was done with her gown, he walked around to face her and held up a small mirror to her, so she could look at herself while she styled her hair. The Phantom could tell she was not really all in as she clumsily brought her hair up in a semi-neat bun, opting not to add any accessories.

"Forgive me," she apologized. "I'm hurrying as fast as I can."

She could be wearing her nightgown and she would still look like an angel in his eyes.

"Don't worry," he told her, his voice soft as ever. "I've never seen such perfection."

Her movements came to a halt, and she stared at herself a moment longer, gathering her thoughts, before glancing back up at him, staring at him through her long lashes in a way that made his heart skip and his stomach summersault.

"I'm ready," she said suddenly.

He put the mirror down then held a hand out to her, which she instantly took a hold of, letting him guide her through the tunnels down a path that would lead them outside the Opera House. Handing her a shawl that complemented her gown, he gently placed it onto her shoulders before wishing her luck, then disappearing into the shadows of the night.

**P・****O・****T・****O・****P・****O・****T・****O**

Philippe, awaiting the presence of his dear friend at the Bistro, was nervous and making the harpies pout by ignoring them. He stepped outside for a bit of air just as Gérard arrived and conversed with the old manager of the company, speaking to him about Gracelyn— gushing over how incredibly talented she was, and how she deserved the have the spotlight shine upon her.

The old man was rather skeptical at the boy's words; this was not the first time he brought a girl to him and told her she should have thousands of lights shining upon her as she sang for the world— nearly all the chorus girls had been seduced and brought in by this young man. Philippe, however, insisted that this girl who was considerably his best friend was far different from all the other girls.

Meanwhile, at the Choletis' table, the business manager announced that _Faust_ had sold out, causing Amélie to nearly choke on her drink at the news; having refused to sing again until the Phantom is caught and killed, she insisted that she would not play a buffoon for others' cruel delight. Just as she had prepared herself to dramatically walk away, Philippe intercepted her and seemingly turned on his young-man-charm, escorting her to a different table and ordering champagne to help lubricate the favor he's about to ask:

Figuring he wouldn't get anywhere with the selfish Choletis by being honest, Philippe instead wined and dined the Prima Donna, explaining that he has a shy "niece" to whom he had promised voice lessons. Then he asked Amélie to teach the girl and, as payment, offered to cover all company deficits for the next three years:

Just then, said "niece" arrived, and when Philippe ran to welcome her, Amélie returned to her husband and the opera harpies, where she howled with amusement as she told them about Philippe's "niece". Taking a long look at the Cinderella-fied Gracelyn, they all interpreted this scene as the young Vicomte slumming it with a costume girl and shared a good laugh at Philippe's transparent ploy.

The young man then pulled the girl toward the band standing on the small stage, insisting that she sing. Gracelyn refused, admittedly uncomfortable with singing in front of this particular audience; she wasn't shy at all— she'd sung in far larger audiences than this since she was very little, but this was a different era. People judged differently, and already, for the most part, she knew people thought her to be odd, and not in a good way. On top of that, she was still a bit uncomfortable with the difference in era; the music she was used to was far more modern. Yes, perhaps she sang many ancient songs during her lessons with her mentor, but that was entirely different. She was being taught, and besides, he was always open to listening to her sing anything from _where_ she came from, so long as she sang for him.

When she finally relented to her friend's request, she slowly walked up the stage, momentarily coming to a halt as she bumped into someone, timidly apologizing to the man she disturbed. When she looked up to meet his gaze, she was shaken to the core with fright, not really knowing why she even felt so in the first place, in this man's presence.

Startled by the suddenty of these inexplicable feelings, she stiffly curtsied, averting her gaze as she apologized once more before continuing her way up the stage, catching her father's eye from where he sat at the bar with her Uncle Gustave. Quickly tearing her gaze from the two men, she stood at the center of the stage, then, with a nod from the musicians behind her, she began to sing.

Seeing as she was but a mere costume girl, most of the company continued yakking, expecting very little from the child, only a few people glancing over in limp interest as she prepared herself to begin a piece. Her voice was dampened by fear, and so her entire first verse was drowned out by party noise.

"_Par le rang et par I'opulence, en vain I'on a cru m'èblouir: il me faut taire ma souffrance et ne vivre que de souvenirs…_"

Near the front row, Alain Choleti smiled indulgently at the sound of the girl's "sweet little voice" and then suggested that his wife should go and "help her".

The Prima Donna laughed softly and shook her head, claiming that it wouldn't be fair on the young woman to overshadow her with her "dazzling" voice, but of course, being who she was, she couldn't resist. She rose from her seat and slid her way onto the stage where, plunking herself next to Gracelyn with a flourish, she started to sing with of the subtlety of a loping mule, adopting frightfully over-exaggerated facial expressions that elevated her ghastly singing into something truly grotesque.

It was so terrible, to the point where the Phantom lurking outside the establishment had to fight the impulse of stealing the firearm of a gendarme nearby and shoot the woman in the head.

Had this been any other moment, or any other place, Gracelyn would've been amused by the Prima Donna's performance, but she too was being humiliated. Not only that, but she was clearly being stepped on; her hands balled into fists, suddenly starting to hate this era— _just because she's a costume girl… unbelievable._

Irritated by this turn of events, the girl brought her hair out of her bun and stalked off the stage, biting back tears as she heard Amélie stop singing and the whole audience at the Bistro erupting in the loudest fit of laughter she ever heard. And it was directed at her, not Amélie.

Her.

Picking up the skirts of her golden-colored gown, she rushed toward the door, only to be stopped by Philippe.

"Grace, I'm—"

"Don't," she cut him off, looking at him with watering eyes. "_This_ is why I didn't want to come."

"We didn't know this would happen."

"_I_ knew this would happen. I'm a costume girl and a _peasant_, not a famous singer, Philippe. They will _never_ take me seriously."

"They won't unless you—"

"Just stop," she snarled, ripping her arm from his grip. "Stop trying to "help me"! You're only making things worse." She stepped away from him and shook her head when he tried to reach out to her again. "Just leave me alone, Philippe. Don't ever come near me again."

"Grace, please," the boy pleaded. "All you have to do is be— "

"Stop it!"

"Yourself," he finished. She shook her head again. "Please, Gracelyn. Just this once… swing from the chandelier."

The girl came to a halt once more as his words shook her. She remembered that song. _Chandelier_… She had sung it to him during one of the many times they'd hung out at his parents' summer house. He had heard her humming to herself as she wandered through his parents' library in search of a book she hadn't already read during her time there; she had to admit, she was rather surprised that he still remembered that.

Tentatively, Philippe took another step toward her. "**Come… swing with me… from the chandelier…**" he sang softly, changing the words slightly. "**From the chandelier…**"

Holding a hand out to her, he took another step closer when she didn't make move to leave, merely staring back at him. "**Come, sing with me…**" he insisted. "**Let's live like tomorrow doesn't exist…**"

Singing in third, harmonizing impeccably, Gracelyn joined him, her voice soft as they repeated the last phrase he sang. "**_Like tomorrow doesn't exist…_**"

Smiling brightly as she took his hand, Philippe pulled her close till they stood right in front of each other, gently squeezing her hand as a sign of encouragement. "**Come****_… let us fly… like two birds through the night…_**"

Gracelyn's gaze dropped momentarily to the ground as she smiled timidly to herself. "_Feel my tears as they dry…_"

She then shifted her gaze back up, not pulling or turning away when Philippe grabbed her other hand, and held them both up to his chest, giving her a rather boyish grin that almost made him look younger than he actually was.

"**_I'm… gonna swing from… the chandelier…_**" Philippe leaned forward and playfully nudged her nose with his. "**From the chandelier…**"

"Pick _yourself_ up and swing, Grace," the young man whispered as he slowly let go of her hands, pushing her to take her chance and shine now as they had started to gain the attention from the others in the restaurant upon their slightly intimate moment.

Gazing past her friend, Gracelyn caught sight of her father and momentarily stared at him until he smiled brightly at her and lifted his glace of champagne, encouraging her to do what her friend was trying to get her to do.

With a wider grin, Gracelyn pulled fully away and spun away from Philippe, her curls bouncing and swishing about as she twirled on her heels, gazing back at the people staring at her somewhat expectantly. Without even having the need to clear her throat, she began to sing the song from her time.

"_Party girls don't get hurt… can't feel anything, when will I learn? I push it down, push it down…_"

Her voice, unlike before, was strong and firm, and much louder than it had previously been. It did not lose its soothingness, however, nor its soft beauty despite her adding more force into each word she sang, as though putting an emphasis on the lyrics she sang.

"_I'm the one for "a good time call", phone's blowin' up, ringin' my doorbell; I feel the love— feel the lo-o-ove…_"

Again, she spun on her heels and found herself grinning slightly as she stood before a table occupied by seemingly _very_ uptight noblemen. Her grin then turned into a slight smirk; if she was going to loosen up, it was time they did too.

Walking closer to the table, she began to pluck their untouched table napkins and throw them in the air as she spun around them, her simple twirls creating a little dance on its own as she gracefully maneuvered her way between each gentleman, snatching their napkins, but never touching them.

"_One, two, three, drink,_" she sang repeatedly for a moment, just as the song went, as she snatched each napkin and threw them behind her in the air, halting at each time at the word "drink" and striking a bizarre pose that seemed to amuse her spectators she danced around rather than irritate them.

As she repeated this notion at three different tables, her father rushed over to the vacated seat by the piano on the small stage and slowly waned his way into the song, playing a few soft chords as she neared the end of the pre-chorus, his playing growing louder and louder as she made her way over to him on the stage.

"_Throw 'em back till I lose count…_"

It was quiet for a moment as her father finished on that last word with a rather _Forte_ ensemble of chords, nearly breaking the keys underneath his fingers as he hit them hard upon reaching those last notes. Back to the audience, the father and daughter shared a heartwarming grin before Gracelyn spun, once again, on her heels as she spread her arms at her sides, her face beaming at her audience as she sang at the top of her lungs as she had not done in quite a while.

"_I'm gonna swing from the chandelier! From the chandelier!_" Philippe walked forward to the foot of the stage, watching with eyes full of admiration as her hands flew to her chest, as she sang from the bottom of her heart; she was truly amazing. "_I'm gonna live like tomorrow doesn't exist! Like it doesn't exist!_"

She spun back so she faced her father, her eyes gleaming with so much emotion. Strutting her way around the large instrument, she wrapped her arms around his shoulders and her smile grew, seemingly, impossibly wider as she hugged him, pressing her cheek to the crown of his head as she continued to sing, her eyes closing momentarily in content as her father sang along.

"**_I'm gonna fly like a bird through the night!_**" Eyes snapping open, she pulled away and looked at him, her smile phasing into a childish grin. A grin he had not seen, himself, in quite a long time. "_Feel my tears as they dry!_"

Looking down at her friend, Gracelyn threw herself forward, landing right in his arms in a considerable bridal style, though she paid no mind to what one might've thought as she continued to sing, Philippe gleefully joining her, singing with her in perfect harmony.

"**_I'm gonna swing from the chandelier! From the chandelier!_**"

He lowered her to the ground and the two began to dance around the tables, their eyes never leaving the other as their voices soared through the room, dancing around each other in harmony rather than clashing against each other.

"**_Oh, and I'm holding on for dear life, won't look down won't open my eyes… keep my glass full until morning light…_**"

With one last twirl, the pair met at the center of the room, their hands joining as they stood in front of each other and finished the song with the mere harmony of their voices.

"**_'Cause I'm just holding on for tonight…_** **_on for tonight…_**"

An eerie silence enveloped the restaurant, though the two close friends did not seem to notice as they relished the fading adrenaline rush and excitement they had felt upon singing together.

Philippe had never felt anything like this— granted, he had never sung with anyone before, let alone sung at all. This was all new to him, and there was a certain bliss to it he could not help but feel; Gracelyn made him feel like a child, and he, admittedly liked that feeling, for he had not felt so in such a long time.

Gracelyn, on the other hand, had truly missed singing this openly and performing altogether. She had sung numerous times, for little Christine and adorable little Meg, with her teacher— the Phantom— and with her father in their quality time apart when they were not otherwise occupied with their respective duties at the Opera House. The rush of energy and excitement running through her veins was so blissful, she could not help the contagious smile that curled onto her lips as she looked up at her friend; her best friend, as she was now happy to call him. She was truly glad and grateful he had stopped her this time, otherwise, she would've probably never felt that feeling again.

But, then again, she would have to thank her dear, sweet Maestro; she might've not gone to this gathering, in the end, had it not been for his encouraging words.

Suddenly, both Gracelyn and Philippe were snapped out of their thoughts as they were startled by a standing ovation from the very awed crowd, praising the talents of the young maiden and the young Vicomte.

"That _woman_ doesn't need lessons!" Alain exclaimed himself. "I'm signing her up!"

Amélie's eyes widened upon hearing this. "Only for the chorus!" she chimed in urgently, not wanting a silly foreign girl to take away her limelight.

The chorus girls rushed to their side, showering them with praises, surprised and awed with their shared hidden talent.

Outside the Bistro, the Phantom stood leaning against the window situated right by the little stage, dressed in his finest thread— as though Invisibly Lurking Near a Party was a white‑tie affair— and positioned himself in a way that he could keenly witness Gracelyn's performance. He had felt slightly disappointed when she hadn't pursued the song he had chosen for her to perform, but the moment he felt a prowess he'd never heard her emit as she sang the powerful verses of the following piece he was unfamiliar with, he felt himself melt right there, soaking in her powerful, angelic voice.

He'd only been slightly shaken out of his lovesick trance upon hearing who he recognized to be her father join her, but when he suddenly heard a voice he did not recognize, he snapped himself back into reality, feeling suddenly cautious. He waited then and waited still when the performance ended, and he watched, from the small, barely visible opening on the wall, as the young woman smiled timidly upon receiving a standing ovation and praises from all around, her arm wound around the boy Erik recognized to be the Comte De Chagny's eldest son.

Pushing himself to calm down, the Phantom stalked toward the door and hid in the corner as he waited for his triumphant pupil to come meet him; she would know he was there and where to look.

He watched the door which had been left slightly ajar as the insolent rich boy led his beautiful angel to his former caretaker— Carrière. Erik was slightly surprised; he had not known Carrière was back in Paris, but then again, he wasn't so surprised. He held no obligation to tell him everything he did.

"Didn't I tell you she was wonderful?" said Philippe upon bringing the girl to Carrière.

The elder man smiled, glancing down at the young man with fond eyes. "My friend, "wonderful" does not begin to describe that voice." He turned to look down at Gracelyn and smiled warmly at the timid girl. "Mademoiselle, I am Gérard Carrière, former manager of the Opera House."

Gracelyn's eyes widened slightly upon recognizing the name. "Oh! Yes, of course!"

"I must tell you, not only is your voice astonishing in and of itself, but it reminds me of a very great singer I was privileged to hear years ago. Belladova; they say she was almost as grand as the legendary Nadda Ramone, from the late 1300s, and Katerina Petrova after her. I am sure you have never heard of either of them, though."

Gracelyn _had_ heard of Nadda Ramone. Many of her Spanish ascendants knew the story _Nadine_ Ramone; she was a very famous Spanish-Bulgarian singer— one of the best, mostly, in Spanish history. Apparently, she'd died from a terrible fever, leaving her only daughter, Eliza, in the care of her sister Ezhda and a young woman who'd called herself Katerina upon moving to Bulgaria with the only two remaining Ramones.

No one ever knew what "Katerina's" actual name was; those who may have known never said so.

Not much is known about their time in Bulgaria other than the fact that they had been adopted by Ivan Sratsimir, the Tsar of Bulgaria at the time, and his wife, both who appointed Katerina as the heiress to the throne, though she had continuously refused until both Ramone women had one day gone missing, presumed to have been kidnapped for ransom and raped, never to be seen again.

They were presumed dead.

Katerina, in turn, had been said to have become vengeful and had aided and led the people during the forthcoming wars, most notably the Fifth Bulgarian-Mongol War.

She, too, had disappeared for a few years before reappearing, leading the Second Bulgarian-Ottoman War, which was the eventual fall of the Bulgarian Empire as it was known, until the Sratsimirs' eventual son, raised by Katerina herself, was placed on the throne at the age of seventeen, ruling justly for the next couple of years following Katerina's _re_-disappearance.

The new king was said to have fallen in love with a woman withholding the same name as the famous, deceased Spanish-Bulgarian singer. They had courted for a year, before the couple, too, disappeared, never to be seen again, leaving the kingdom in the capable hands of his caretaker and adviser, Sultan Rozanov.

Gracelyn gave Carrière a timid smile as she shook her head; again, she knew those of her family history but never had she heard of any singer under the name Belladova. "I'm afraid I haven't, Monsieur."

The man kindly waved her off, shaking his own said. "No matter. Enjoy your success."

In all honesty, Gracelyn had a great time. But she was not one for partying; she enjoyed her success by sneaking out of the Bistro and making her way back to the Opera House as quietly and as quickly as possible.

What she didn't expect, however, was to suddenly be assaulted by a group of men, even less rescued by an angel with strange eyes that looked as though they were bright orbs with inextinguishable flames dancing within the fiery gaze filled with all the secrets and wonders of a lifetime.

Of unmeasurable lifetime_s_.

* * *

**Footnotes**

**Introduced Characters**

**Chef Clotaire **(mentioned only) is the head cook at the Opera House.

**Madame Mormont** is the matriarch of the Mormont household, a little farmer's family in their little town; she, herself, is a caterer, mostly focused on cake-baking.

**Marise** (mentioned only) is a resident beggar woman of their little town.

**Madame Girard** (mentioned only) is the resident ballet mistress at the Opera House.

**Belladova **(mentioned only) was a French-Italian ballerina, turned singer at the Opera House.

**Nadine Ramone **(mentioned only) was a Spanish-Bulgarian singer, known as one of the best female, musical performers in Spanish history.

**Eliza Ramone **(mentioned only) was the orphaned daughter of Nadine Ramone, left in the care of her aunt Ezhda and companion Katerina.

**Ezhda Ramone **(mentioned only) was a somewhat renowned musician and sister of Nadine Ramone.

**Katerina Petrova **(mentioned only) was the adopted daughter of Tsar Ivan Sratsimir of Bulgaria, and heiress to the throne.

**Translations**

**Mi hija**: My daughter

**Mi querida**: My dear


End file.
